Trying to get pregnant? Make sure you know the bottom line on baby-making—what you don't understand can affect your bub-to-be's health.
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I think I've had a New Age experience. This is not something I've been seeking. I've been seeking to meet my freelance deadlines, figure out why the couch we ordered hasn't been delivered, and somehow overlook the feeling that every part of me is becoming exponentially larger by the day. But today, I went back to the Y for my second prenatal yoga class, so I guess part of me is questing for some sort of lightness. I was at least hoping to regain the ability to put on socks without grunting, if not to achieve full-on yogic enlightenment.
Upstairs in exercise studio B, while I was opening my heart, stretching with my breath, and creating an intention for my practice along with all the other pregnant women, I felt a culmination of what I can only call bliss. Cynicism fails me here. The windows were open because, for reasons it didn't occur to me to ponder, it's got to be at least 60 degrees out, even though it's the dead of winter. A balmy breeze was playing in my hair. I stood in tree pose, focusing on a point outside, while sunlight hitting the rose-colored stucco building next door reflected into the room, giving the wall of pink pilates balls a holy sort of glow.
I was suffused with joy. In a rush, happy moments from past vacations came back to me—I was sipping an umbrella drink in the Caribbean, running my toes through soft sand in Southern France, walking in a garden in Lisbon on a spring morning. Less than two miles from home, in the middle of winter, I was on the best vacation of my life.
I left yoga a round-bellied, joyous, expectant version of myself, feeling more wonderful in my body than I have in weeks, with our little baby-to-be fluttering inside me. For my intention—and please know that I don't usually talk this way—I decided that I would aim to live gracefully. To do the things I have to this week (reassure my editor, write that story, call the couch place for the umpteenth time) with equanimity, as though I mean to be living this life, as though I am capable of living it.
I also left yoga feeling the best kind of ravenous: the energized, healthy kind. I picked up some fish at the supermarket (who knew they had wild salmon!). I've heard the recommendation to eat low-mercury fish that are high in Omega-3s a thousand times, and for the first time the idea was appealing and simple rather than daunting. At home, I made myself a pink and green, spring-like-day salad as fresh and hopeful as I feel.
Sure, for dessert there's the article I have to write, but it will happen. It always does, even under the most stressful circumstances. And right now, I've never felt better. Is this the famed "golden trimester"? Yoga? Just a good day? Who knows. But you can bet I'll be back at the Y next week seeking...whatever this is.