Unfit Mother

6 Weeks Pregnant


If the rest of you pregnant ladies out there are going through what I’m going through, then I’m quite frankly a little concerned for the survival of the human race, which in my case is currently being formed by a strict diet of sour cream & onion potato chips.
This is not exactly the model of a Fit Pregnancy. While my brain possesses all the information it needs to have a super-healthy pregnancy, my body has other ideas. Exercise? Love it! Normally. I exercise as often as I can manage. I leave my gym bag packed and ready by the front door most nights so I can fit in a 5 a.m. workout. My gym bag is, in fact, packed and waiting by the front door as I write this… which is exactly where it’s been sitting for the past few weeks, untouched. I’m sure things must be mildewing in there by now. (I’m afraid to look.)
I’m worried for this baby. And, I’m worried for myself, and for the body that will be left after this baby comes. I just can’t seem to sustain anything near my normal level of activity. I’m tired. I’m nauseous. I’m wiped out. I’ve tried walking a bit with Charlie in the stroller, but it’s all I can manage. It simply feels out of my hands, like some strange invasion of the body snatchers. And it’s not just my body that’s been taken over… it’s my mind, too. I’m forgetful and flakey. I’ve been having crazy dreams. (Hello, Ronald Regan driving me around New York City in a taxi? Helllooooooooo junior-high school sweetheart as my husband?) I won’t even mention all the hormone-fueled X-rated dreams I’ve been having. (Oops, did I just?)
I’d like to blame my crazy-dream-filled nights for my bone-tired exhaustion during the day. I know that exercise would probably help. But, the fact remains that the only exercise I can seem to manage right now is lifting my fork to my mouth. I really can’t go more than two hours without eating something substantial. And, by substantial, I’m not talking about the recommended “extra 300 calories” of nutrition you might find in a banana and a cup of yogurt. I’m talking plate of pancakes. Side of beef.
"Meals" as I used to know them are a blur right now. And since when is spaghetti an “emergency?” Emergency. As in: Five-alarm fire. Severed Limb. Tsunami. Spaghetti. I’m having flashbacks to the time when I was pregnant with Julia and called Will from the train on my commute home (an hour-long commute, which I naively started with no rations on hand) to ask him to bring a sandwich when he picked me up. The poor, poor, misguided man arrived at the train station with NO SANDWICH. Years later, I was able to grasp his reasoning: It was winter. It was bitterly cold out. He didn’t want me standing in the cold waiting for him while he picked up the sandwich, so he decided to pick me up first, and then get a sandwich from across the street. In fact, he’d already called ahead to order the sandwich. Brilliant!” Sure, years later I could grasp this logic. But at the time… at the time....I reacted something more like this:
Me, jumping into the car: “Hiwhere’sthesandwich?!”
Will: “I’m just going to pick it up across the…”
Ah hem.
Today, I actually had a craving for salad. I’m pretty sure I could drink the salad at our local Bertucci’s.
At least it's not sour cream and onion potato chips. I'm making progress here.

Join Fit Pregnancy.com's Managing Editor Dana Rousmaniere each week as she blogs about her third pregnancy.

Next week: The pukefest begins...