Running while pregnant....Schlepping while pregnant.

"Don't poop the baby out." My loving husband's words of wisdom/support for me as I embarked on breaking my 3 month hiatus and began my first trek into running while pregnant.  Just a few days shy of being 23? 24? weeks or 5 months, how do you say...  it sucked.

3.3 miles total, I think I ran continuously for about a maximum of 1.2 miles during all of that and it was a mix of mostly running, but also walking.  I was NOT about to run up my big hill that's on my trail and I knew that now, of all times, is not the time to get self competitive and push myself.  I actually did the right thing ( how mature of me?!?!) and took it easy.  It was awful though, I am still beating myself up mentally, but I really had zero expectations (only silent deep expectations that I would miraculously get back out there like I hadn't taken any time off and I wasn't carrying an extra 15 pounds of weight - plus whatever I've gained with the baby - and I would rock it out and complete my usual 4.25 miles at a pace of under 10 minutes).  No.  Hell no.  3.3 miles and it took me 50 minutes total.  How painful.  I have a great excuse and I am O.K. with that.

I wouldn't actually call it running, but since my runkeeper doesn't have an activity titled "Walking with a spring in your step" or "running/falling over simultaneously and continuously" I would classify it as "schlepping" but since NONE of those descriptions are in runkeeper, I went with running.  My only congratulations from my application was "yay, you've beat last weeks distance AND time!"  What a GENIUS my app is, I haven't run in three months and that's all it can think to give me as positive reinforcement to keep me going.  Lame sauce.

And as a side note to describe running while this far pregnant, I had expected it to be a lot like running with a block of those 1 pound cheese (like Monterey Jack or Colby Jack) in my lower abdomen and have it shook about as I felt it "ping" much like the game "Pong" off my vital organs just like a pinball machine.  No, it was surprisingly comfortable.  I followed the first cardinal rule of running, especially while pregnant, to empty my bladder before I begun my trip, only 2 miles in to feel like if I didn't chase down a random porcelain statue immediately I was going to break my bladder right there on my trail.  I figured the quickest way to get to a toilet was to run home, so that's when my minute per mile pace improved and I ran the most and the fastest.  It's amazing how motivation (in whatever form it comes in) really works.

Here's a photo of me and Baby Version 2.0 after our first (and hopefully, really) not last running expedition.  AND, you're also looking at three sports bras.  Those babies weren't goin' nowhere!

Boobies and cups running over.

At 22 weeks pregnant, my cups are already running over.  But, as it turns out, I have room for more spilling.  I'm running out of room in my shirts and need more space.  My abdomen is running out of room and my vital organs need more space, but apparently the Baby thinks it is a higher priority.. (sheesh).  As someone who has never desired to have gigantic boobies, I certainly feel as if that's come back to curse me.  But, I'm busting at the seams.... to tell you about a different kind of cup running over.  As if I haven't had the time to really customize this current blog, I've partnered with three other (far better) put together gals, who have been able to come up with a fabulous new blog where we share our thoughts on everything from marriage, to love, to kids and work, crafts, how tos, tips and crazy topics.  Some of it funny, some of it educational!  Between the four of us, we have a lawyer, photographer, development (fundraising) director and of course, I'm the loose cannon working in TV.  Andrea, Dawn, Priscilla and myself are excited to make this announcement so I hope you will click your way over there to www.OurCupsRunnethOver.com

 

How very grown up I do feel at this point in time, there's something out there, professionally speaking that's got my name on it and I'm very proud of all the fabulous work (mainly the other three) have put into this venture.  There's so many different topics that we will write about and I hope you will find something that you really like and keep coming back.  We've got tremendously talented guest bloggers lined up and, just to have them contribute is fantastic.  This blog is like a box of chocolates, sometimes you don't know what you're going to get, but you'll at least eat the chocolate part outside of the orange flavoring inside, if you didn't happen to get the chocolate/caramel inside the box.  That's what I do.


Our Cups Runneth Over.  That's the name, wear it out and tell your friends.  Subscribe, follow us on Twitter (@OCRunnethOver) and friend us on Facebook (www.facebook.com/OurCupsRunnethOver) so you can be entered to win a $100 AMEX gift card. 

I'm a yellow bellied wuss.

Being stuck on my death bed/flu infested mattress swallowed whole by the nasty of nastiest bugs and to top it all off a sinus infection to boot, has made me more self aware of my total inability to suffer through any amount of pain.  I'm a wuss.  A big yellow bellied chicken and I hate pain.

Lying here suffering from what I can recall as my only encounter with "the flu" ever, I wonder how it can even remotely cross my mind that I could try giving birth, second time around drug free.  I can't even handle the damn flu.  I've maintained a sub-level of consciousness these past few days as well as a topsy turvy new age circadian rhythm that involves me sleeping for 2 hours at a time and then waking up in a hot sweat or cold chills and not passing out again for at least 4 hours.

I'm survived by a regular "fix" of sudafed, chased with extra strength tylenol and a daily hit of azythromyocin.  In between these drug highs is what I can only describe as pure self pity in it's most basic human form.  I cry and wonder what it was like to feel well again.  To be able to smell my surroundings and hear my dogs scarf down my barely touched dinner I was saving for later in the evening when I might actually be hungry.  I can't smell my food, or taste it and I can't hear a bloody thing.  I had to ask Mr. Price if my pits stank.  He didn't verbally reply, but the wince and disgust on his face really said it all, I had to shower and use some deodorant.  STAT.

I've googled purchasing one of those biohazard/anti radiation portable shower booths, after exposure, you step into one of these babies and it sanitizes you so thoroughly you could lick a spoon cleaner than to soak it in a tub of bleach.  Oooh to be germ free, it sounds very luxurious.  Obviously such a device is out of my price range, and I don't think these vendors accept MasterCard.  Dammit.

My toes hurt.  In between my toes hurts.  Every time I cough, my cerebellum likes to remind me that it's there by jumping up and down on the top of my spinal cord.  Every time I want to blow my nose, surely there's a gallon of snot stuck up in there, why won't it come out?  It's like every vessel inside my cranium, behind my eyes and even those pushing through my teeth throb so intensely it's like they belong to a low riding Cadillac that's roaring through my head and vibrates all the glassware in the house, inside my head, just like they do when they ride down your street at 2am.

So I'm laying in bed, a window cracked so I can see the gorgeous outdoor weather I am missing out on and can't help but notice the human growing inside of my hasn't noticed I'm sick.  The baby (mystery sex) is running about and jumping as if nothing has changed, meanwhile, I'm wallowing in self pity over the flu and how much it hurts all over and am reminiscing about the time when I could breathe through both nostrils simultaneously.   Yeah, after the flu, giving birth is going to be a piece of cake.  As long as the cake is laced in an extreme hallucinogen and then directly injected into my spinal cord.

And so we grilled.

And by we, I mean Mr. Price. 

I don't grill.  I'm not too girly for anything, but grillin' just isn't my thing.  I worked food service on my university campus (as internationals are often forced to do, seeing as that is really the only option of on campus employment) and came home smelling like a grill 4 days a week.  I ruined at least 3 pairs of jeans working there because of the smell, I mean STENCH, and my hair took years to get rid of the grease that lined its roots.  So, with hands in the air, I gladly hand over all grilling rights to Mr. Price.

I like smelling the grill, I just don't like smelling OF IT.

Plus, there is a certain invisible injection of testosterone that I can see my other half getting as he lights the charcoal, stands over it carefully and monitors it's heat.  As if it were a newborn baby, he stares into it's hot embers as the orange swells from beneath the black and he waits, for the right amount of smoke and heat, just like you delight in the smallest of small smiles from the one who can barely lift their head.  There's also a certain air of manly manhood that encircles the black weber.  Now, a co-worker of mine insists his wife is the grilling master and he would dare not ever step on her turf, but ladies, that's a once in a million gal, for her love of the grill, is the love only an XY chromosome would understand.  I sure freaking don't.

I think of the grill and instantly salivate with the thought of tender, garlic and butter drizzled over a thick juicy piece of good old fashioned red meat.  I am instantly, as if grabbed by the thrust of a worm hole, transported back to a time where I can see Mr. Price and three friends' husbands circled around the grill, sharing nothing but "work sucks" and "thank God for beer" conversations as they cradle their condensation soaked beer bottles in the rattiest yet most favorite beer coozies.

I love the grill.  It reminds me of summer.

And thus, therefore, why we grilled yesterday when for three months it had barely peaked above an average of 31 degrees, at the gorgeous, sun lit, moderately cloudy filled sky my first and only instinct was to buy overly expensive and out of season hamburger ingredients to grill and enjoy, nay, REVEL in the precious warmth of a Mid February warm up in the distant hope that spring were to appear in February this year and not March because, unlike most other years here in Central KY, this winter had been particularly cruel and sunless.

So, come forth you horrible tease, as I look into the remainder of this week and see a forecast that peaks in the high 60s, bring me a weekend that is encased in snow and ice and temperatures below freezing, because I KNOW it is still February and meterological Winter, but the sun and the grill have given me hope, a hope that you cannot quash Mr Jack Frost, may you try, but I shall stand firm in my long pants and short sleeve shirt (with a jumper on still, of course) on my side porch, grill at the ready, husband queued for the match of the season with lighter fluid in the left hand and charcoal in the right.

My porch is swept, my summer lights plugged in.  Bring your worst, Winter, for when you do, I know it will be short lived and your one last attempt at bringing the drudgery and doldrums of winter back to my heart are gone.  Gone, until we meet again, sir.

And so we grilled.  And we will grill again.  With wine glass (filled with koolaid) in one arm and my middle finger extended high into the air..."Screw you Winter!"  "The grill is the first sign of your demise, and this year, you will face your end, early."

Social Media PDA and Valentine's Day.

I don't believe in either.

I have no problem laying a long juicy smooch on Mr. Price in public (you know, regular public, before facebook became the new public) and I'm definitely the opposite of shy when it comes to conversations about affection and how to apply it with your significant other, but, when it comes to a status update, or a 300 word dedication to your significant other, I'm just not that kinda gal.

As always, I dutifully acknowledge my lack of mature developed feelings and ability to express them in an adult manner, but when it comes to me and Mr. Price, I don't think my 174 friends and 6 followers really give a damn about how I love him and let me count the ways...or when I love him.  And if they do, they need to get a job.

Valentine's Day is also a waste of time.  I'm not going to go into one of those hippy rants about how "the man" and "Hallmark" came together to formulate a cockamaney holiday so people devoid of romance would spend ridiculous amount of money on severely inflated items such as flowers, cards and jewelery, I just think this particular holiday is a waste of time.  I didn't always think this way, but after I passed from "newlywed" into "married lady" I realized that Valentine's day had a 6 in 7 chance of falling on a day that involved my full time job, getting my son into bed and wondering if it had been too long since I had trimmed my toenails. I also took the practical stance that if either one of us had the extra money to spend on a crowded restaurant filled with couples that were basically performing a socially acceptable form of modern co-prostitution (man pays for dinner, woman buys nice dress, child at sitter or away, so later said couple can meet up at agreed location and perform scheduled expected "return on investment") we had the money to put it away and buy something bigger and better at a later date.  We never do.  But that still doesn't sway me.

No, I'm also not doing the "reverse psychology thing" where I say (typical chick methodology) that I don't like valentine's day but secretly want a dozen rozes delivered to my office.  No.  Again, no.  I'm doing the practical thing (in my mind) by just not participating.  Now I DO give my son a red heart lollipop in his lunch box or draw him a heart on his lunch sack and give him an extra big embarrassing mum sloppy kiss until he squirms out of my death grip, but I don't wish anyone a "happy valentine's day".  If Mr. Price wants to buy me a dozen roses, it works a lot better with sponteneity and making an occasion.  He recently hit the nail on the head (and luckily for him he's still wearing off the many brownie points he earned that day) by having a bouquet of flowers delivered to my office after we found out we were pregnant with #2 and the card read "Here's to being the best mom in the world one more time"  gush.  Sniff Sniff.  Gets me every time.  Now, THAT is the kind of affection and special day I can buy into.  I'll always remember that day and keep THAT card, versus keeping track of the cards I received on the same day every year, year after year.


Love that guy.  And that's all you're going to get out of me. 

Anymore than that and I will claim temporary emotional insanity caused by raging hormones producing another human.

Looking for the tiny bit of my philosophy in this timely post?  Well here it is, You don't have to buy something for someone on some day and sit in some restaurant to make someone feel special.  Romance is tricky 5+ years into marriage, good luck figuring it out.  I'm still working on it.

Aww, looking for a solution, and I just handed the ball back to you in your court?  Sorry mate.  Figure it out yourself, I have no clue!  I just do what works for me, and that changes... depending on what mood I'm in.