Though I am loathe to admit it, my absence from the blogosphere over the past month or two can really only be explained by my increasing levels of utter sloth. Earlier in my pregnancy, I had Pregnant Power, which in my mind is a little like Punky Brewster's (my childhood hero - dude, have you seen her treehouse?) "Punky Power," imbuing the possessor with plucky charm and extraordinary, unflagging energy, except in the form of a 30-year-old knocked-up lady instead of a freckled, pony-tailed sprite:
I traipsed to work in four-inch heels, wobbling precariously but generally remaining upright. On my lunch break, I switched to sneakers and took half-hour power walks in the swanky residential neighborhood near my office, admiring the neatly manicured lawns and mentally redecorating the particularly palatial estates for my own future inhabitation (you know, after we rob a drug lord and can live on easy street - damn, there I go channeling "Boogie Nights" again, minus the porn and 13-inch penis...sorry, honey). I ate my saintly lunch of whole grains, lean proteins and organic veggies, warbled my hand-picked roster of soothing lullabies to the baby during my drive home, then took another stroll around my neighborhood. My evenings were spent poring over countless birthing books as I mentally armed myself with sufficient knowledge to ensure that I would surely kick labor's ass. In short, I was a lean, mean, gestation machine.
Until recently. The fact is, I've become a shamefully lazy bastard as of late. My four-inch heels have been forsaken in favor of lower varieties (still no flats, mind you - years of unabashed LA-dwelling girliness have rendered me damn near incapable of walking without some semblance of a heel involved). My lunchtime walks are a thing of the past, mainly due to the inevitably perilous outcome of scorching summer sun vs. pale, burn-prone flesh. My well-balanced, baby-friendly meals have been infiltrated by innumerable cookies, cupcakes and other delicious, tooth-rotting indulgences (I already fear the stern reprimands at my post-birth dental appointment). My evening strolls are kaput, and instead my nights have succumbed to the siren song of the couch and DVD player, as six seasons of "24" beckon from my TV stand (we briefly considered "Jack Bauer Draitser" for little LOOL).
To be fair, it's not really as pathetic as it sounds. I'm still singing to the baby. I've finished all of the birthing books that I intended to read and flagged important sections for additional review. I've even read (and yes, flagged - I love me a flag) a hefty array of babycare books and magazines to ensure that I will have at least some vague idea of how to care for the child after it's born. My husband and I practice our simulated-contraction relaxation techniques every night before bed, and I've been doing my Kegels faithfully. Even the near-total lack of exercise is perhaps more helpful than harmful, as my weight gain had slowed significantly enough to compel my midwives to encourage me to eat more (I promise you, this is less fun than it sounds when it's midnight and you're shoveling large bowls of granola into your face just to ensure adequate caloric intake for the day). We're still productive on weekends - seeing friends, decorating the nursery, going to the movies. Although I know I shouldn't be too guilty about my newfound sedentary self, I can't help feeling exactly that. Where is the high-achiever, the Type A, the go-getter? Who is this wobbly, vulnerable person who has taken her place?
I was complaining about this to a good friend recently. The mother of a ten-month-old, she quickly put it into perspective. "Listen, these are the last weeks of your life when you can do whatever you want - enjoy it. Take a three-hour nap everyday if you want to, and don't EVER feel guilty."
Wise words indeed, from someone who has been deep in the trenches of pregnancy and new motherhood and emerged to tell the tale. For the next seven(ish) weeks, my life is still my own. From then on, I'm a mother.
In celebration of this, tonight I shall watch an extra episode of "24" while bouncing on my birth ball, doing Kegels, eating granola, and researching baby carriers online.
Old habits die hard.