Turns out, I am not one of those fragile, dainty girls who only gains 2/3 of a pound in her first trimester and then slips right back into her size 2 skinny jeans the day after she pops out the kid.
I really hate those girls. Bad.
It says in Chapter Eight of the baby book, if you haven’t gained any weight yet, not to worry!
Yeah well. Screw you, Chapter Eight.
I daintily gained 7 pounds. The last time I blinked. The moment I looked at the pregnancy test, the button popped off my jeans and shattered a window.
One thing about being constantly nauseous but never barfing (lucky me, huh?), is that all those terrible things I was eating stayed down. The boxes of macaroni and cheese. The Nutella waffles. The late night peanut butter sandwiches. The noodle bowls.
My god, the noodle bowls.
All of this fatigue, nausea (baby poisoning, Sonia calls it) and weight gain has put an itty bitty bit of a strain on my running.
Between 4/25 and 5/11, I didn’t run at all. Really, I didn’t do jack except lay on the couch and eat. I did manage to make it to once-weekly yoga classes, because that was the only activity where no bouncing or jarring movement was involved, and I could be lazy while still assuring myself I was doing something productive.
Finally, I started to feel better, but it was already too late: I was fat. (Chubby: my mom’s polite euphemism.)
The exalted Book says not to let my heart rate exceed 140, but when I asked my doctor about that, he kind of rolled his eyes.
“Do what you’re comfortable with. Obviously, if you start to feel cramping, dizziness, nausea, fatigue, stop.”
Which was somewhat of a relief (have you ever tried to keep your heart rate under 140 and still get a decent workout?! Especially when you’re all fat and wheezy?), but still leaves a gray area in terms of how much is too much.
Basically, the criteria I formerly used to define a pretty good run may now be the signs that I’m killing my baby.
Not that I should be concerned with overdoing it: the most I’ve managed to run at once is 3.2 miles. For the most part, it sucks. I can feel my belly bouncing. My legs feel like tree trunks. I’m huffing and puffing.
I call it erring on the side of half-assing.
At any rate, I AM grateful to be running at all.
Pale, fat and grateful.