July 28, 2014 by Amy B
I’ve always had a special place in my heart for the number 23. I was born on the 23rd. I wore the number a few times during school for various sports teams (when I wasn’t just trying to get a uniform that wasn’t completely trashed by the students who’d worn it for the past decade). My due date is November 23, 2014. And this just happens to be Week 23 of this crazy pregnant ride.
Speaking of crazy, the dreams are really crazy and weird these days, but some of them are really cool. The running dreams are the craziest. Last night: I was running in a group with assorted Oiselle women, including the one and only Lauren Fleshman giving me advice about setting goal paces and, well, just flat out going for them. (I have no idea if I’ll ever get the opportunity to meet Lauren, but I must say she’s pretty persuasive, even in my dreamworld.) We start running and I keep thinking to myself, I’m going out way too fast; there is no way I’m keeping this up. The course was an out and back through what seemed like a shopping mall/convention center/hotel, and as we passed the halfway point and started running toward the finish, my legs were still flying. The race ended in a hotel room (I know, I said they were weird) and not only did I cut six minutes off my best 5K time to date (somewhere in the 28 minute range), I was congratulated by Sally Bergesen with a high-five. Yeah. It was the kind of dream you wish would go on and on and then your two year old comes crashing in the bedroom at 6:00AM.
There have been multiple running dreams: one running at night, one running so fast my legs were floating above the ground. There was a good softball dream where I snagged an unbelievable line drive. I haven’t played ball for over a year (maybe even closer to two), so that was a surprise. My running dreams are usually the ones when you can’t seem to get your legs moving and they feel completely disconnected from your body. To have dreams when I’m running fast – well, it’s a nice change. Especially considering my running reality is the exact opposite of fast.
Wednesday had been my last run outing, so maybe it was a little of that plus the baby tucking itself into a semi-comfortable place (for once) in my ever growing expanse, but the first tenth of a mile actually felt, dare I say it…
And then about a block later, I was horribly out of breath and had to dial it back a notch.
The bladder pressure wasn’t bad, my legs felt pretty good, and while stretching it out to three miles was tempting, I decided to not push my luck and settle for two. It was the right choice.
Flashing back to when my clothes fit better. May 8, 2014:
This morning, July 28, 2014:
I made sure I took the most awkward photo possible for this last one, post-morning two miler. I know I’m a real fashion plate with that compression socks/capri combo.
I’ve seen a lot of women who’ve recently given birth who are right back into their fitness routine three post-birth (some even after a caesarian!) and I’m just dumbfounded. I’ve kept up with the running, hoping that it will help me after the baby is born (and also during delivery) but the idea of coming back that quickly? With my first, I sat around for almost a year before I attempted to get back into shape (dumb) and with my second, it was three weeks before I even attempted a walk of any considerable length (1.28 miles) and my first run? About four and a half weeks after baby was born:
Maybe I am unfairly comparing myself to athletes of a completely different caliber than me, or maybe I will surprise myself and find that the running, as intermittent as it’s been lately, plus the walking, will make things a little bit easier in December. Fingers crossed for the latter.
I admit that I have running on the brain lately; seeing a bunch of ladies kicking ass at the Eugene Marathon this weekend, and seeing my team/var/run mates killing long runs in stupid hot heat made me even more run sick. But the thing I’m worried most about these days are my blood glucose levels, which have been considerably higher over the past few weeks. I go and take that (gestational diabetes) test again in less than a month (anytime after Aug 17 and the 26 wk mark) and though I’m not a betting woman, I’d bet on me completely bombing it, just based on the numbers I’m seeing in the morning. I’m riding the high end of the acceptable range, which was never the case with my last pregnancy. I was always well within the limits set by my doctor, and I was doing less exercise than I am now. I was also heavier (by about eight pounds), but also two years younger. This advanced maternal age shit sucks.
So I’m preemptively denying myself my morning bowl of steel cut oats (and it kills me) and trying to take it easy in the carb department, which is tough because I can’t even tell you how badly I really want a [insert random baked good here] right now. My desire to not deliver an enormous baby with a predisposition to a lifetime of health/diabetes issues must trump my desire for pastries. (Reminder to Self: This is not about me.)
Truth be told, since sweatpants (or no pants) are the only clothing items that feel comfortable with these additional 25 lbs, I could probably benefit from laying off the apple fritters.
I will, however, accept any care packages of baked goods after this kid is born. Email me for my mailing address.