27 weeks pregnant, I was in Arizona on a “Babymoon” when I had a real expectation reset. Pre-pregnancy I was a pretty intense person. I worked hard, lived hard, played hard, loved hard. My inner motto was: If you are going to do something, really do it! Throw yourself into it and be present and focused. That applied to my workouts too. I loved classes because I could turn off my brain and relinquish control to the teacher, following their instructions exactly. When told to squat, I did; go down and inch, I went; ride up a hill, I climbed. I followed their commands and felt my muscles tremble, toning and strengthening.
And then I got pregnant. Immediately new goals formed. I was no longer working out to improve my cardiovascular health or perk up my rear. I was not in class to release tension and stresses. All of a sudden, without conscious acknowledgement, I was working out for someone else. My body told me when to stop and rest, when to go down one more inch or not and when to sit something out. I was moving to have a healthy pregnancy, to stave off gestational diabetes and to (hopefully) ease labor pains.
Stretching and breathing and relaxing and resting became equally, if not more, important than lunging and pressing. I was short of breath just from walking, and that was OK. My muscles quivered with fewer reps, and that was also OK. I gratefully acknowledged that these nine months were not the time in my life to tighten and tone and burn. These nine moths were the time to nurture and nourish and embrace and surrender to change.
For the first four months, I could barely do any physical activity. A prenatal yoga class or walk outside hit my limits. Mostly, I was nauseous, queasy and fatigued. Once that eased, I added back a weekly prenatal yoga class and occasional Kettlebell Kickboxing, Barre class, or prenatal DVD. For the first 27 weeks until our baby moon in Arizona, I hadn’t attempted any real cardio. No jogging or spinning or eliptical. No aerobics or dancing.
Our hotel was about 2 miles from downtown, and on our first morning my husband, Gary, and I woke up before6am (we were still on NY time). The air was cool and a friend suggested a great breakfast place in town. We decided to jog there from the hotel. 2 miles. No big deal. Friends used to joke about me that I could just strap on sneakers and run a marathon (or a half) tomorrow, if challenged to do it. Running was something I did only when the mood struck. Blow off steam, clear my head, find a rhythm. Easy and enjoyable. Until I took my first pregnant steps at 27 weeks. Wow. 0.1 miles into our jog I was already trailing my husband. My breath was heavy and my steps were short. “OK,” I thought, “This is New. This is different. This is OK.” Gary paced ahead, and I prayed for a red light at every intersection. A chance to stop and catch my breath. And then I realized, “Stop! Catch your breath!” New expectations were set by 0.25miles. Running is hard! Breathing is labored! Slow is good. Walking is necessary. Fresh air is fantastic, and breathing it in deeply was what I focused on. In and out. Jog and walk. Together with my husband, caring for my belly. And breakfast was fabulous!
