I have always prided myself on my memory and attention to detail, but lately I’ve become incredibly spacey.
And we’re not just talking about forgetting to respond to an email or other innocuous things. In the span of the past week, I have shipped 2 packages to addresses where I never actually lived, forgotten to put up the gate that keeps the dog out of the trash when we aren’t home (which led to a trash-all-over-the-house disaster), and let the dog outside and left him there (omg! Am I going to forget about the baby in the future!?)…along with countless other things that I’m pretty sure I’ve already forgotten that I’ve forgotten. What is happening to my brain? At this rate, I’m afraid I will soon forget my way home. Someone will find me wandering aimlessly through the woods miles outside of town.
The poor, forgotten child
I am no longer a fully rational human being. Instead I cry over the dumbest things.
Like War Horse. And commercials. The other day I had a breakdown about some of the things I mentioned above. Totally blubbered away over nothing, really. And poor Evan had to sit there and tell me what a “good job” I’m doing with all this….as if I’m a little kid who is frustrated that she can’t master a new skill. I honestly don’t know how he doesn’t spend all his time laughing at me these days. I know I would…if I wasn’t convinced that my problems were SO LARGE and my emotions SO HEAVY. And I thought those emo teenage years were bad…
I no longer have any shame.
Okay, so I care about being presentable for work, but most of the other time? Not so much.
The positive side of this is that for the first time ever, I truly have no qualms about my body. I’m heavier than I’ve ever been in my life, but I don’t change outfits because “I look fat in that” or feel self-conscious about those extra pounds. Most of the time, I’m flaunting the belly. Pregnancy has given me a weird sort of confidence that I can’t really explain.
The flip side is that I no longer have shame about things like, oh I don’t know…going to the store with food stains on my belly. Or wearing ridiculous outfits. My husband has never found me more attractive.
Who needs masks when you have running headbands? Please note that we were using paint with 0 VOCs…and see point above re: lack of rationality
I’m craving a good, hard, fast workout.
I don’t know if it’s the hormones, or the fact that this week has been pretty crappy in terms of running, but I feel like a drug addict in need of a fix. You know, because I have so much experience in that area (moving on…). I think I’ve been doing pretty well so far with adjusting to my new speed and getting excited during times when I am able to push a bit. But lately my cravings are getting worse. It’s just been so long since I’ve felt that feeling of flying, you know? And 2014 is still so far away. I’m telling myself that this is a phase…it will pass and the craving will fade. In the meantime, I need to find a way to a way bottle up all these feelings and use them as motivation for next year.
See also: please remind me of all this in 6 months when I’m inevitably complaining about training!
(Related): I have serious, certifiable, full-blown race envy.
The 100 on 100 Relay came through my town last week, Hood to Coast is going on this week, peak marathon season is right around the corner, and everywhere I look people seem to be gearing up for (or running) another big race.
Yes, I know my “condition” is of my own choosing. And yes, I know I could have timed it so that I would’ve at least gotten in one good spring race instead of facing an entire calendar year(!!) without one, and yes, I also realize that life is about a heck of a lot more than racing. However, race envy does not always respond to logic.
I thought I would appreciate the downtime. That I’d use it as a way to recharge and escape the burnout from constant training. Although I’m sure that’s true to some extent, it still doesn’t change the facts. I miss racing. I miss it even more than I thought I would. I miss the fatigue of training, the dread of a long run or hard workout, the pre-race I-need-to-puke-right-this-second nerves, the sheer utter exhaustion and dark mental battles in the later miles, and of course, the elation of a finish line that makes it all worth it.
Yep…I seriously sound like an addict. Please send help.
Meanwhile, I have become addicted to Googling all things baby — nurseries, cloth diaper reviews and patterns, furniture, accessories, gear reviews, outfits…you name it.
I did not expect to lose myself in the vortex of baby-crazies. I thought I was way too rational and well-rounded for that (but again, see above). I tell myself it’s filling the void left by the race planning and training plan obsessing. But to be perfectly honest, I’m totally into it. I don’t even know who I am anymore.
The best onesie ever made. Cheese Baby will wear this every single day of her life.
I am not enjoying the “sit down, put your feet up…no! don’t you worry about that!” part of pregnancy. At all.
Well, unless we’re talking about cleaning the litter box. Or doing the dishes at night. I’m perfectly happy to pull the pregnancy card to get out of those chores (not having to go near the litter for 9 months has got to be the best perk of pregnancy). But the rest of it drives me sort of crazy. I know people only say these things out of consideration. And sure, some days I love putting my feet up and doing absolutely nothing…or wish a swarm of fairies would come in and magically clean my house for me. But I’m not fragile. And I really sort of hate being treated that way. Plus, does anyone really want to spend their entire pregnancy thinking about/doing nothing but being pregnant?
(Speaking of which…) I do not love everything about being pregnant.
This is the hardest thing for me to confess. And the hardest thing to write about without sounding like an entitled, whiny brat. But let me try to explain…
I don’t hate being pregnant. From a physical standpoint, I’m very happy that my pregnancy hasn’t been all that bad. I’m thankful that the baby is healthy. I am in awe of the changes my body is making to support life. Think it’s cool to track my growth every week. I get a kick out of listening to her heartbeat and feeling her move. I love sitting really still when she’s dancing around in my stomach and imagining what she’s going to be like.
But there’s this perception that women are supposed to love being pregnant. We’re supposed to be in a state of bliss over the miracle of life, flaunting our womanly bodies that are working hard to grow a future generation. And we must be grateful for every minute, especially because there are so many who would give anything to experience this time of life.
We’re not supposed to talk about how hard it can be sometimes. The guilt that is associated with these feelings of inadequacy — about not being “good” at being pregnant, and (even scarier) at potentially not being a good/worthy parent. The emotional and mental side of pregnancy that can sometimes be harder than the physical aspect. And the dichotomy between these intense feelings of love for your future child and acknowledgement that you really are lucky to be growing a healthy human…and the fact that all this human growing isn’t really the most fun thing ever.
I hope this doesn’t make me sound ungrateful or like I’m miserable all the time. In fact, most days I don’t dwell on the fact that I’m pregnant and I’m able to accept the good with the bad like a normal adult. But sometimes I might just have a teeny-tiny pity party (I don’t know if we can really blame the hormones for that, but I’m going to try), and some days (weeks) are admittedly harder than others.
However, even in the midst of my occasional pity parties, I can still see the light. I read something written by a new mom or think about all the worries I’m going to have once she’s outside the womb and realize — this is only the beginning. And in some ways, human-growing might be a cake-walk compared to all this human-raising stuff.