Anything You Can Do I Can Do Pregnant

Well, maybe not ANYTHING. Eating my favorite spicy tuna roll, washed down with a giant icy can of Sapporo is going to have to wait a few more months.



But I'm talking about running. Ahhh yes, my old frenemy--running.



The first time I was pregnant I was a bit of a worrywort. I stopped running about 4 months in, mostly out of discomfort, but partly too out of concern. What was all that sloshing around doing to my little alien baby?



With the Deuce, I've already run in two races, and am signed up for at least two more this Fall. Just 5k's, but they keep me motivated to get my weekly runs logged in. I am DETERMINED to run right to the Turkey Trot, and possibly beyond. That will put the Deuce at about 7 months gestation, and I think we can do it.



What other people think is an entirely different bag. My belly is getting significantly bigger. I'm actually thrilled about this, as we're passed the, "Boy, MB should really lay off the chips and dip" stage to "Oh, I guess she's just pregnant again" stage. We're not quite at the, as Christopher so lovingly dubbed it, "Preggo-mundo" stage.



As I was huffing and puffing my way down Delaware this morning, I noticed I was getting some out and out stares from people driving by. Now, I know it's a real sexy look, sweaty tomato face and all, but I can't help but wonder if they're judging me.



Duh, of course they're judging me! They're human, we are all guilty of that (yes, even you). I have read a LOT about running while pregnant. I've spent time lurking on pregnant-runner forums and have consulted with my doctor. Everything I do is perfectly safe, and since I've been working out for more than half my life, I am pretty aware of what's happening with my body. When it hurts, we're done.



I see the looks on the old lady faces, the disapproving glances and open-mouthed stares. Oh well. I'm no Olympian, but I feel like if I keep running, and doing and going, it helps other women and my own kids see what our bodies can do. As much time as I have spent agonizing over my body and its shape, I'm pretty happy it can do lots of wonderful things.



Like hauling around my huge self, with one along for the ride.

The Mrs. Of Sisyphus

Albert Camus should write a novel about me.

Not that I pissed off Zeus, or think that the only solution to an absurd life is suicide or anything, but this housework gig is really making me channel "Groundhog Day."

Keeping a house clean is an act of absurdity in and of itself. I have long since come to grips with the self-filling laundry basket and dishwasher. I remember long ago thinking the only way my laundry would ever be truly "done" is if I spent the majority of my life naked.

No one wants that, believe me.

But having recently moved into a house that is largely decorated in tones of white, off-white, ercu and cream, I am learning just how much cleaning is required of me. Specifically the floors, countertops and walls. Somedays I wonder if it's really worth it to even haul out the vacuum at all.

I fall pretty squarely between slob and neat-freak. I like a nice vacuumed rug, a clean, germ-free countertop, and floors free from piles of dirty clothing/toys/dog hair. I do not, however, get down and scrub the baseboards with a toothbrush or even regularly rid the ceilings of cobwebs. Sorry if you're grossed out, but it's not worth it to me.

But once I opened the door to a cleaner, hairless world, there was no turning back. We moved in and I vowed to scrub, dust, and disinfect every last square inch of this place. Har, har har.

Every time I thought the (white vinyl) kitchen floor was clean, I'd turn around and . . . "Where the hell did that paw print come from!?" Or I'd vacuum the (off-white) carpet within an inch of its life and . . . "Goddamnit there's another hair ball." Ugh, forget it. I see fingerprints on my cupboards in my sleep, and I have long since ceded the windows to hand and noseprints forever.

Ultimately, who cares, right? I know I shouldn't. As long as the house is clean for company, and I clean enough to keep us from turning into a House of Squalor, that's good enough. But sometimes that damn pawprint makes me feel like the crappiest housekeeper--which spirals into mother--in the world.

But then I think to myself, "Even if I clean it up, it will be back again." So sometimes, I just leave it.

Finding the Funny

They say if you don't laugh you'll cry. Well, by "they" I mean "me," and I say it about a hundred times a day.

I love love love love LOVE being a stay-at-home-mom. I really do. But there are days, like at any job, where I want to jump off the roof because I have no idea what to do. So on those days, as well as every other day, I like to find something to make me laugh. I usually don't have to look too far.

Yesterday, little E decided to use the insert of my Bundt pan for a megaphone. He walked all around the first floor yelling into the Bundt pan, making both himself and me laugh for a good few minutes.

The other day I was in the basement and C was watching TV. Little E was--uh oh--quiet for a few minutes in the living room. C calls to me :"MB, did you put him there?"

Oh shit, where?

I run into the living room only to find E balanced INSIDE the drawer of the coffee table, sitting cross-legged and chillin. How he got in there, up there, and didn't break the table, I'll never know. Of course I didn't have my camera.

This morning, before I decided to move all the boxes of unframed and unhung pictures from the 3rd bedroom, little E proudly brought me a matted black-and-white photo, given to us by our former neighbor. He then proceeded to throw it on the floor and dance around on it like he was on a street corner in Harlem in the '80s. "Breakin III" if you will.

Out of all these ridiculous happenings I am growing my patience. Some things are funnier than others, some things really make me want to beat my head against the wall. But I know when he's older, and would rather die than act silly in front of me, I'll remember the funny.

And who knows? Maybe he'll be "that" kid--the one always cracking everybody up. I kinda hope so.

Tiny Toddling Tower of Terror

Oh. My. God.

Naptime at last, and not a minute too soon. Sure, I'm punishing my future self by putting little E down for an early one. But present-me needs a breather.

It's 8 thousand degrees out, no AC on the first floor, and my little toddler won't/can't/doesn't sit still, ever. And while it's fun to watch his antics, chasing him up and down stairs, redirecting him off the bay windowsills and bookshelves, and gently reminding him that tails are not for pulling has worn thin for the morning.

Too bad we're already on nap #2, and it's only 12:15. Holy shit.

It's times like these I wonder if I'll ever regain my sanity. I knew all I was getting into when we had a baby. The infant thing--constant nursing, lack of sleep, crying (his and mine), worry and wonder and diapers galore--I had that down pat. No one ever told me about what happens next. How this helpless little creature you lovingly held and cooed at will turn into a screaming, climbing, running, screaming, digging, scooting, exploring, screaming little guy.

Did I mention that he screams?

I wonder daily if this is "normal" toddler behavior. I can't exactly call the pediatrician and discuss the 9 million ways my little guy has gotten into, onto and under the furniture and drawers. Everyone says, "oh yes, this is what they do."

Really?

And then, whenever I ask a question, I get the invariable, "Just wait! Just wait until you have two!!!" Um, yes, we're waiting, and it's filling me with dread.

Because we soon WILL have two, and every night I go to bed wondering, "what the hell is coming next?"

I can only hope my anticipation of the Deuce's arrival is making me more anxious than I really need to be. But I can't help but worry I won't be able to do it.

Anyway, it's naptime, and probably won't be for long. It's too hot to eat or think or even breathe, but I am going to chill and try to cut the worrying for now.