So, since I last reported to the blog for duty, I have worked out!!  (I’ve also changed plenty of diapers, lost plenty of sleep, and had a wonderful time with Miss Baby, who’s becoming much more interactive every day and is just the coolest little thing ever–but that’s for another post).

So here’s what has transpired, sweat-wise:

RUNS

THREE!!!  Three lovely mile and a bit runs!  The first one was absolutely and shockingly glorious–it was a cool late afternoon with the birdies singing for me, Snow White style, and I ran with a huge grin on my face… until I went splat on the concrete after tripping on a big rock.  So typical! But I finished it and now have the scarred knee (same one as the Freezer 5K) to prove it.  The next one was very blah (but what did I expect, running in the 11 a.m. Trinidad full sun and heat?), and the one after was pretty good (even though I ran in the same sun and heat).

The issue with running–even with just setting out for ten minutes–hasn’t been the running itself, actually.  I would have done more had it not been for the fear that she’d wake up hungry and find herself bereft of the magical boobies, screaming in her father’s well-intentioned face and rivaling a fire truck in decibels.  OK, so I exaggerate, and she doesn’t really scream much at all.  But her sleeping has been all over the place (or rather, NOT all over the place, as in not happening much during the day at all) and it’s been stressful to think that she may wake up and need feeding the second I leave for a quick run or, conversely (and more selfishly), that she would gulp down two bags of hard-earned pumped breast milk in the time it takes me to run half a mile, at which point the screaming might commence, because she’s a hungry little child.

So, as physically enjoyable as running has been, it’s not exactly a relaxing thing to do, and that, combined with  the midday heat, has made it happen less than I expected.  Oh well.  Not beating myself up here–and her schedule will even out soon enough.

STRENGTH TRAINING

Er, what’s that?  Nope, no planks or pushups; those involve my knees, and my right knee was scraped and out of commission.  I have, however, done two sets of leg strengthening exercises (one session of lunges and such, and another of Core Fusion thighs) with all ten pounds and six ounces of Miss Baby in her baby projector (read:  Baby Bjorn) and that has been both challenging and leg-liquifying–in other words, great.

ZUMBA

No public/group Zumba yet, sadly (see above issues with timing my running and multiply them by one hour long class and two 20-minute car trips and you see where that’s going).  However, I’ve done Zumba at home with DVDs and Zumba tunes twice, and THAT has been beyond great!  She starting to have a couple of periods each morning where she’s happy to hang out without eating and she’s all interested in lights and shadows and moving objects… oh, and ME.  She will stare at me do the most mundane tasks like it’s the most fascinating thing on earth, so having me jump all around (and create shadows, and do it all in front of the burglar-proofing) has been a real hit. And maybe she remembers the Zumba music from all our in-belly workouts?  Who knows.

All I know is that Zumba has happened three times and there’s a system–albeit a flexible one–in place for it to happen. Here’s how that works:

1. I feed The Perennially Hungry One.
2. I plunk her down in her stroller and roll her around after me while I get dressed.
3. I roll her out to the living room and start exercising.  She opens her eyes wide and makes her “oh, surprise!” mouth for the first fifteen minutes of exercise.
4. For maximum baby happiness, I keep her interested by routinely:  poking her, pulling at her feet, tickling her belly, blowing raspberries into her, and shaking her hands or feet all about.  I look like a crazy person, but as long as no one sees and she’s happy, that’s fine by me.
5. Be willing to pick up and feed as needed.  (I haven’t had to yet, but today I did have to feed her right after, and let me tell you, trying to wrap a t-shirt and fabric around me to keep the sweat off her was harder than the actual workout, holy goodness).  And note for the future: make sure the bra is tightened back to where it should be after feeding her; we don’t want a wardrobe malfunction here.
6. If no feeding is needed, finish, run to the shower, and shower so fast that I risk getting soap in eyes so that I can feed her as soon as my 45 minutes of sweaty glory are over.

And that’s Zumba for me these days.  Apparently, all this will help me bring sexy back.  It all looks rather unsexy when it’s occurring and compared to my pre-baby workout routines, I have my doubts, I must say, and also, I remember less routines than I thought I did, but that doesn’t matter, really.  I still drip sweat like a beast after my 45 minutes–interrupted, graceful, or neither.

* * *

So that’s it on the workout front.  Six cardio workouts and two strength sessions in the last, oh, eight days?  It’s not half marathon training, but it’ll get better in the much-missed running department and it’s a great start.  Endorphins are happening, muscle tone is materializing (sloooooooowly), and most importantly, I feel like myself after doing it all. Win-win, right?

I’ll report back with more workout news as and when they happen, BBC-style… but until then, spare me a thought when you do your blissful, uninterrupted, non-baby-time-affected workouts, will you?  I promise not to think evils out of jealousy.  I swear.

Ah, to write a fitness-related post again!  It’s been many months and lots of baby since I could even say the word “fitness” and not cry.

Now that she’s six weeks old and I’m starting to feel like a human being again (albeit an occasionally zombified version of a human being), I’m super excited to start exercising again.  I’m not going to lie:  baby weight (or rather, post-baby shape) is getting me down.  It’s not about the pounds, though goodness knows I’ve stopped weighing her by weighing myself with and without her first (I’d rather Mr. Man obsess about his weight while we attempt to weigh HER, thankyouverymuch).  It’s more about the jiggle factor… and the fact that I really, REALLY want to get back into my old clothes.

And yes, I know.  You’re going to tell me to be patient.  You’re right.

So, in the spirit of being patient, there is no real, set comeback plan.  No schedules, no series of set exercises.  Instead, I’m going to aim loosely for:

• Ten minutes of running as often as I can (daily if possible, but otherwise whenever)
• Zumba once a week
• Pushups and planks before bedtime (and by “bedtime” I mean they can happen before a nap, which resolutely counts as “bedtime” these days) whenever I’m not so tired I’ll injure myself by face-planting
• Walks whenever possible

Here’s my reasoning for this non-plan “plan:”

• The “ten minutes of running” thing was a great piece of advice by a friend who did that to get herself back into running postpartum.  Even with Miss Baby’s capricious hunger and cluster-feeding, I can wring out ten minutes to run, and if it’s dark, I’m cool with running up and down the street, which I’ve done before and which I used to think was torture (but hey, take away  my running for five or six months and I think running up and down my street is a total dream.  Perspective, eh?)  If I can go longer than that, great–and I can always check with Mr. Man as I run by to see if I need to end the run and offer up a feeding.
• The Zumba is necessary for the socializing as much  as (if not more than) for fitness; it will involve me feeding her, the three of us getting in the car and heading to Zumba, Mr. Man carrying a bottle of milk for her lest she gets ravenous during class, and me being ready to feed her before heading home.  Can I say how grateful I am to Mr. Man that he is willing to try this out until we get her out of her little cluster-feeding habit?
• The pushups and planks I can definitely handle.
• The walks (either with her in the stroller or in the baby carrier) will at least get me some air on days when I need an outing, which is really most days.

All of this minus the pushups and planks, of course, depend on fairly decent weather.  The rainy season seems to have started really early so we’ll see how the rain treats us–I’ll run for ten minutes in a downpour with no problem, but I’m obviously not going for a walk with the baby during a monsoon.

That’s it.  I’m not holding myself to more than that because Miss Baby Madam has no truly predictable schedule yet and I know that, at this stage, getting shuteye amid the cluster-feeding and, better yet, chilling with the baby are more important for my health and sanity than getting muscle tone back.  Instead, I’m going to be kind to myself–for once–and not drive myself crazy with ticking things off a list or making up workouts.  If this works, great.  If not, I’ll try my best not to get too fussed and I’ll exercise patience, or something like it.

Here’s hoping this works out… because I’m still impatient old me and I miss my muscles.

Now that Miss Young Money is one month old, I have gained some insight into the behavior of a special kind of baby, which she may or may not be (wink wink):  The Highly-Discerning Gourmand Baby Diner.

The Highly-Discerning Gourmand Baby Diner (let’s call her “Miss Young Money,” for example) eats under the influence of three guiding principles, which are informed by a knowledge of historical and cultural contexts:

1. Like the Spanish, she approaches eating as an all-night, tapas-fetching event, and is prepared to eat for hours on end (and she DOES).
2. Like the ancient Romans, she approaches eating as a bacchanalian endeavor in which she must gorge herself to the point of ridiculousness (and she DOES).
3. Like the eager Y2K food hoarder, she approaches her food like a natural disaster is coming–she absolutely MUST chomp up before food somehow disappears (which it DOESN’T).

Now that her precedents have been established, we can outline her behavior, step by step, using the name “Miss Young Money” and “breastfeeding” to stand in for the average highly-discerning gourmand baby diner.

• “Miss Young Money” smacks her lips, sticks her hands in her mouth, flails her arms, and stares down her food sources when hunger (or the desire to eat, unrelated to hunger) strikes.

• When presented with her food source, face to face, “Miss Young Money” will make an angry face, scrunch one eye like a pirate, and attack the food source.  She may also pinch the carrier of the food source.

• Exactly 3.9 seconds after attaching herself to her food source, “Miss Young Money” will then push herself away from her food source with her fists.  She may or may not clamp down on it before she does.  She will most definitely push her face around and get “milk” all over it.

• “Miss Young Money” will then emit an angry cry, which is muffled by the gurgling of “milk” (or food) in her mouth, leading the “mother” (or waiter/chef) perplexed about why the food is being rejected (and sometimes in considerable pain, too).

• The highly-discerning gourmand baby diner will then allow herself to be coaxed back to her food source.  She may or may not allow her mouth (and now “milky” face) to be wiped first.

• The above behavior will be repeated two to six times before “Miss Young Money” (the highly-discerning gourmand baby diner) will approach her food source calmly and settle down to eat.

• The eating will proceed for 30-45 minutes, during which time “Miss Young Money” will pause, look at her surroundings, stare down her “mother” (or waiter/chef), alternating with periods of comical (to the onlooker) and rather senseless (because she WILL get all the “milk” she wants) gorging.

• When the dining appears to be finished, “Miss Young Money” will throw her head back with her eyes closed and mouth pursed and clamped shut, with “milk” (food) all over her face (often before releasing the source of her food).  She may look asleep.  She may very well be.  She will look like a drunk old lady; this is actually a good sign and evidence of a meal well enjoyed.

• After dining, “Miss Young Money” will need to have her mouth wiped (like the ancient Romans whose extravagant eating rituals necessitated bathing during and after their meals).  She may or may not allow this.  She will also need a warm cotton ball swiped across her face.  Again, she may or may not allow this.

• Once the wiping has occcurred (or been attempted), the task of “burping” (or clearing the table and paying the bill) will begin.  “Miss Young Money” may not take well to this kind of ending to the eating proceedings and may not submit to “burping.”  This resistance often takes the form of lifting her head off the “mother” and her shoulder like a tiny turtle, bucking her whole body back, and pushing against the “mother” (or food provider)–sometimes, nay usually, all at once.  Other times, she may not even notice that she’s “being burped” (clearing the table and paying the bill).

• The meal ends when the highly discerning gourmand baby diner is taken to her bed… or not.   Fifteen minutes to a half hour after “Miss Young Money” has passed out in a “milk-drunk” (full) state, she will wake up and want to “eat again” (or visit another nearby eating establishment–right or left of the last one, depending on where she last ate.  She only eats from two places and all on the same block/person, that person being her “mother”, after all).

• The highly-discerning gourmand baby diner will repeat ALL the above steps for two to three hours nightly during “normal adult eating hours.”  YES, that’s right.  She also reserves the right to eat in such a fashion between the hours of 6 AM and 12 PM for the same amount of time.

And THAT, my friends, is how you identify a highly discerning gourmand baby diner.

In other words, my child cluster-feeds and, sometimes, it makes me lose my mind.

THREE AND A HALF WEEKS!!  Yep, I can’t believe Miss Young Money is that old already either.

I could tell you all about what babies do at this stage of development and how she’s doing it (or not)… but honestly, I don’t really care.  All I know is that she is precious and wonderful and I still kind of get excited sometimes when she wakes me up at night to eat, just because I get to spend some time with her.  (Do note, however, that I qualified that with “sometimes”–those “sometimes” do not necessarily include nights where she decides that feeding once every hour and a half is a good idea, or nights when she decides to make me change diapers in fifteen-minute intervals).

So.  She’s precious.  She’s a long string bean of a baby and none of her little dresses fit yet, as she could slip right through the shoulders.  She has the faintest hint of eyebrow, in the right light, and she spreads her monkey toes so wide apart that it kind of freaks me out.  She hooks her feet onto the sides of the rocking chair when I feed her and she makes the craziest, I’m-desperate-and-you-might-never-feed-me-again face when she begins to eat.  She opens her eyes so wide that they seem to take up half her face and she smiles at herself randomly–and constantly–at the weirdest times.

She’s a baby Houdini and wriggles out of any cocoons or swaddles that we put on her and we’ve given up on it, leaving her hands out and free so we save her the trouble of getting free.  She doesn’t cry unless she’s hungry, and even then it’s more of a statement cry than a full-on hissy fit. She’s totally easygoing–lucky thing, given that she definitely has a stubborn streak (like, er, her mom).  She ALWAYS knows when we’re about to sit down to dinner and usually decides that’s a good time to join us in eating, too… usually for an hour and a half.  She doesn’t mind having her hair washed but sometimes minds the rest of the bath, and she has already learned to pull off her socks with her hands, making me fear for the fate of all the cute socks she’s gotten (and baby shoes I’ve knit for her).

She stares at me endlessly, but she’s probably even more fascinated by her dad.  I can also already tell she’s going to be a HUGE baseball fan.

In other words, I’m smitten.  I’m sleep-deprived and scatterbrained, but absolutely smitten.

So my mom gave me the BIGGEST surprise when I talked to her an hour after having Miss Young Money–she told me she hoped I didn’t mind that she’d booked a flight to spend a week with me here in Trinidad.  How could I possibly mind!!  Had I known it would take me having a baby to get her to come and visit, I definitely would have done it a lot sooner.

It was, without a doubt, the sweetest visit ever.  She came, she fed us, she showed me how to do the things I was a bit nervous about doing (thank you, Sole’s belly button, for waiting until your abuelita arrived to fall off and need dealing with).  We spent hours kissing and coddling her precious little first granddaughter and sitting on the porch, doing nothing but taking it all in.  We didn’t go out much, but we DID manage to bring my mom some key Trini foods to try (sada roti, roti, and doubles, with us eating doubles twice in the week per my mom’s request!) and we went for the baby’s first walks around the neighborhood (shirtless-baby-style, since she had to get some sun to counteract a touch of jaundice):

We  chatted for hours during middle-of-the-night feedings–and most of the day as well.  Oh, and she made me sleep sometimes too, which was definitely a good thing.

We also had our first outings with Miss Baby while she was here, because though my mom came to spend time at home with us and give us a hand, we just couldn’t let her leave without seeing the Savannah and eating at our favorite restaurant, Veni Mange.  The Savannah walk was short and sweet (literally–we all shared pholourie and I learned about the myriad uses of baby wipes) and the dinner at Veni Mange was relaxed and wonderful, with Miss Young Money being passed around and held (mostly by my mom, who would have been happy to hold her in her arms the entire week) and behaving herself spectacularly well for a newborn, waking up to eat only when dessert arrived and earning herself the title of Veni Mange’s youngest-ever dinner guest.

(We also spent some quality time at the Embassy together, all four of us, while we sorted out Miss Baby’s birth certificate, and at the doctor’s office for my follow-up visit, but we won’t talk about those less-pleasant trips; needless to say, it was SO helpful to have her there).

I think what surprised me most, in my admittedly mushy and hormonal state, is the way that this baby has given us something so incredible to bond over.  It’s kind of “duh” to say it, but so true, and I’m so grateful to this little string bean of a girlie for bringing us even closer than we were before (which I didn’t think possible).  I couldn’t imagine that she would be able to come visit on such short notice, and now it’s hard to believe she ISN’T here all the time, living with us and being just as much a member of our house as we are.

So, as you can imagine, I am in total weepy mode about her leaving (still–and she left yesterday)–but I’m also stocked up on phone credits and Skype credits, and I’m counting down the days until we go home in two months’ time, when I’ll gladly hand her over to her proud grandmother for more cooing and fun times.

Plus, we may have extracted some promises of yearly visits from my mom, who STILL needs to taste bake and shark.  I tell  you, this baby is the BEST My-Mom Magnet yet…

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing my favorite toy/present EVER!

Miss Young Money is here!  Soledad made her arrival into the world last Saturday at 4:47 pm after a mercifully short labor. The sass machine (aka as Sole, Sole Mole, and Solecita) was just about two weeks early, staying true to the only exception to running late/Puerto Rican Standard Time allowance and being early, as was I and as were all my sisters.

I had no words at the time, and I pretty much still don’t. She’s the best, most amazing, most awe-inspiring thing to ever happen to me, and that sounds trite and doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I’m not even going to pretend that I’ll be blogging regularly for the next little while.  I’m too agog with her and with my new little family to make any sense–and it’s only going to get better when my mom arrives tomorrow for a week-long visit to her first grandchild.  So please bear with me and I promise to share more as I get my head back in place.  Right now, it’s a happy fishbowl around here (as a friend very concisely said)…

… Or nest.

Well, the back spasm has subsided.  It’s nice to breathe without feeling like your back is going to explode and break in half.  I’ll take the remaining back strain/muscle strain any old day.

Having said that, there’s not much going through my mind that ISN’T in some way babychild-related.  About 50% of my thoughts are dedicated to willing her out, now that we’re one day away from 38 weeks and she’s good and ready to go (according to my doctor and charts and all that other nonsense).  Beyond willing her out, I’ve tried begging her out. I’ve also spent way more time than is healthy wondering whether a baby can, in fact, be bribed out, and coming up with possible bribery incentives, if you will:

–real food!  (Well, milk at first, but it’s gotta taste better than what she’s currently having)

–a pretty room!  (It’s ALMOST done, minus the cutting of a big matting board which I was too useless to cut last week)

–loving parents!  (Seriously, has she seen us with the dog?  We’re really, REALLY nice!  Well, her father is, anyway.  I’m just passable on that front lately).

–nice weather!  (It’s still the cooler part of the dry season, child.  Don’t you want a bit of fresh breeze before the heat really hits?)

–sweet baby clothes! (If she’s anything like me, she’s DEFINITELY not a nudist and appreciates the sartorial touch.  Her dresses and onesies definitely suit her more than an umbilical cord.)

And then there’s the more ridiculous…

–money!  (OK, just a college fund that her father is starting for her.  But she doesn’t need to know the particulars, right?  Money is money to a baby, I’d assume.)

–three whole months of uncomplaining night attention from us! (It’ll be tough, but I promise not to whinge when she wakes me… if she just comes out NOW).

–a pet lizard! (Or pet agouti.  Yeah.  Whatever floats her boat. She just has to COME out, point it out, and her dad will fetch it for her).

As for me…. Well, the last month has been pretty tough.  All baby bribery aside, it’s hard to focus on the good stuff when you’re in searing pain.  And it’s been a real lesson for me to let others do stuff for me while I’ve been on bed-rest–not because I don’t think others can do as good a job as me (they do better, in fact), but because I’ve never been the kind of person to just relax and take it easy. On top of that, being in pain really detracts from the fun side of being pregnant–you kind of stop being entranced by baby movement when ANY movement makes you want to double over in pain, and I hate how that was the case last week.

Plus it feels like I’ve been pregnant for years.  I look at pictures from last August (when I wasn’t showing yet) and I’m amazed that there was a time in my life when I WASN’T pregnant.  It’s like I remember flashes of what that was like, and I miss it like crazy.  I miss being able to walk around without having to do a recon mission on nearby bathrooms.  I miss feeling like I’ve exercised, and I miss the exercise itself (carrying this baby load around doesn’t count).  I miss being out and about and taking pictures.  And, mostly, I miss having other things in my head than this whole waiting business.

I also miss being of a normal size and shape.  Judge if you will, but just because I’m pregnant and having a baby doesn’t mean I don’t care–or won’t care–about how I look, especially given how long it took me to get to how I looked before.  I will take my old shape, plus twenty pounds, happily just to be able to sit at a desk and do all the other things I used to be able to do.  But I can’t lie–I can’t wait to get back in shape and make a project of it, and as much as people assure me I’ll be back to my old shape and size in no time, I’m still very incredulous about it.

Of course I know how lucky I am, and I’m fully aware of the histrionics of these kinds of thoughts….  But I’m not going to pretend that it’s all bunnies and bullshit around here lately.  I’m also not going to pretend that I’m the first pregnant woman in the world EVER, and I know that I’m healthy, she’s healthy, and it could be muuuuuch worse.  So I’ll zip it now.

(Actually, I’ll go back to thinking of how I can bribe the child–it makes the time go faster).

People, I haven’t been abducted by aliens.  It’s just that gravity has taken a toll on me.  And I don’t quite understand how, given the way my 36-almost-37-week belly looks pretty gravity-defying:

THAT is the belly that caused a back spasm, that caused a horrid two days of not being able to breathe well, that (combined with a stupid stomach bug) caused a dehydration scare, that caused a midnight rush to the hospital, that caused me to finally give in and walk like a nine-month pregnant lady in front of other people, that led to a shot of Gravol and a bedrest order to get my back healed and the spasm gone (and thankfully nothing else–I was able to keep liquids down after the marvelous shot, that is now causing both relief (in that my belly is pretty immobile as I spend the day with it propped to the side by pillows) and boredom (how many movies and TV series can I watch from my laptop, in bed, for the next week?).

In all seriousness, though, the incident freaked me out big-time, and I’m incredibly relieved that all was well in the end (especially with Miss Young Money).  It makes me very, VERY grateful to have reached week 37 today and, though boring, I’ll take bed rest for the next few days like a champ.

So things might be quiet around here for the next few days because I can’t type while lying down… yet.  And things may remain as unfashionable as above, too–there’s nothing quite like outgrowing your damn maternity leggings.

PS, I’m not sure if I’m housing a baby or an upside-down egg.  I guess I’ll find out in the next three weeks or less.

PPS, I spend about ten minutes of my day thinking about how excited I’ll be to get my wardrobe back soon.  Those shorts and that tank top will NOT be featured in it, in case you were wondering.

The closest I’ve come to carnival anything this year involved going to a panyard.  Unless you count hearing three fetes going down near my house, that makes a grand total of ONE single, solitary carnival event.  It’s OK, though; my carnival mojo never appeared this year, partly because I know that it couldn’t appear.  I’m actually glad I’m way too huge and uncomfortable to even countenance going into town to watch the bands or any other carnival action.  It’s just a no-go, no question about it, and I can deal with that.

However, I have kept up with the yearly traditions of watching Soca Monarch and Calypso Monarch on TV, and I must say, neither did much to spark a carnival feeling, despite me having a great time watching both with friends.  Here’s the deal on…

Soca Monarch:

1. Was it just me, or was it even less international this year?  Discuss amongst yourselves.
2. I’m not even going to qualify what passed as camera work with words.  Because there are none. They cut out the first minute and a half of most performances (you know, the important part where they choreograph a big stage entrance?), they had all kinds of weird and far angles, and they just could not mike the crowd, which was sad to see when performers put their microphones out for the crowd to sing and we at home heard… absolutely nothing.
3. Eight minutes is an awfully long time to repeat the song over and over again–because so few performers actually do up thoughtful stage acts.  I’m tired of the routine:  sing song, slow song down to bare instrumetnals, big yourself up to the crowd, big up the crowd, return to singing song.  Meh.
4. The groovy soca was definitely the better part of the year’s soca output… and even still, the performances were rather snoozy (see exception below).  Just because you don’t have “wave your flag” in the lyrics doesn’t mean you can’t rile up the audience. And let’s not go into power soca.  Did it happen? Did I miss it?  Where’d it go?
5. Now, I have mixed feelings about Machel Montano, but I admit the man can put out a tune.  And that winning groovy soca performance of Mr. Fete? That should have been the last performance of the groovy category, because no one came even close to blowing the roof off like he did.  Props to Machel.
6. Where was All Rounder?  Hmmm?  Where?!  Where’s my “Garlic Sauce”?  Don’t they know he’s 90% of the reason I watch these days?

And onto Calypso Monarch:

1. Eight minutes?  Too long for the new kaisonians.
2. I’m dead, dead tired of the ranting lyrics.  What happened to having a good conceit, witty lyrics, veiled references?  It’s turned into a laundry list of news story regurgitation.
3. Why can’t anyone sing their songs anymore?  I know kaiso has never been about vocal prowess, and that’s fine by me, but I’m tired of hollering men and hollering women.
4. I wonder where the men get those suits.  The big shoulders/too-long jackets/tapered pants in a rainbow of shades SLAY me.
5. Why was it on so late?  Why not start earlier?  By the time the entire set of kaisonians did their first song and the Kings of Carnival had paraded, it was past one a.m.  It’s not that I was sleepy (though yeah, I was)–it’s more that i just didn’t have the attention span anymore.  It would be nice for the events to be better spaced out (and if they started earlier).

As for the Kings of Carnival–I was well impressed this year.  And it was really sad when the one masquerader fell and his entire costume collapsed on him.

See? I can muster a bit of carnival feeling… from the relative comfort of a cushy couch.  Oh well. I’ll take it.

What did you think happened since my last exercise update?  If you guessed “nothing,” you are right.  I’d give you a cookie or something but you know how I do about baking and the like.

Anyway, now that I’m looking like so….

…I’ve found the need to redefine what passes as exercise, just so I can say that I’m actually GETTING some exercise.  Otherwise, I’d have to be classified under “slugs” and “whales” and other such low-energy creatures which , while massively appropriate for my massive state, don’t exactly do much for my self-confidence or fragile sense of body normalcy these days.

So, in lieu of non-pregnant forms of exercise, here’s what now constitutes exercise for me:

Turning over in bed. This is by far my No. 1 form of exercise.  I attribute any muscle tone left in my arms to the gargantuan efforts expended each night in tossing and turning, both to avoid booty cramps (the indignity!  why can’t I get calf cramps instead, like every other normal pregnant woman?) and to hoist myself up to go to the bathroom eight million times a night.

Getting up to go to the bathroom. It’s hard enough if I’m on the couch, but I get extra points on this one if I’m actually laying down.

Stirring things on the stove. I have to stand at quite a remove from pots and pans, so I have to angle myself to get at what’s cooking, which takes a LOT of effort.  Trust me–I have to work hard for my food not to burn these days, and I’m almost past the point of caring.

Dislodging the baby madam from my ribs. She loves putting her feet there.  It’s not just that she puts them up and reclines, either; I’m convinced she’s got mad monkey skills and can swing off my ribs.  At best, it’s very distracting; at worst, it HURTS. So I spend plenty of time bending and flexing to coax her out of her favorite spot on the playground.

Putting on pants. And by pants, I mean leggings.  And by leggings, I mean I’ve given up on the maternity jeans:  it’s too hot and they’re too downwardly-mobile for me to bother unless I’ll be out in public.  So this epic struggle is conducted with stretchy cotton and it’s STILL enough to get me into a tizzy.  You may think it’s pitiful, and you would be right.

See?  That’s how I get my sweat on these days.  It’s a far cry from half-marathon training and I don’t even get a medal for my troubles.  Hrmph.  (Though I do get a baby at the end of it–but you can’t hang a baby on the wall for all to admire like you can a medal or a race bib, can you?)

As for Miss Young Money’s exercise:  I take her constant jumping, twisting, turning, hand-standing and cartwheeling as a slap in the face to my ridiculously sedentary ways–or, more precisely, as very hard thump in the stomach.  And as I have to brace myself for a lot of that–like, I’m bracing myself against it all day long because good heavens, this child is electric–we’ll count my bracing against her real exercise…. as exercise for me, too.