I got my last pre-baby haircut last night. I asked my stylist to cut it a bit shorter than usual, because I won't be footloose and fancy free in 2 months time.
My bad eyesight has always prevented me from seeing what a hairstylist is doing as he/she snips away. When I put my glasses back on last night, I was a surprised by the new style on my head. There is no doubt about it - I have Mom hair.
In that instant, I had a moment. I looked at my Mom hair. I looked at my stylist, a young thing whose spikey Crayola red hair rarely caught my attention in the past. I looked back at my Mom hair.
It's official. I'm now a 33-year old mother who gets her hair cut by a 22-year old club hopper. A very nice, very young woman who said just yesterday that she "feels so old now that she's staring down 25". With this realization, I counted her 14 (visible) piercings and wondered why I hadn't noticed them in the past.
In other news, I felt very smug this morning when my lower back pain eased. Perhaps it was the backrub from PapaBear last night. Perhaps it was a good night's sleep. Perhaps I'm just a fabulous specimen of breeding biomechanics.
A few minutes ago, I stood from my desk and felt a "thud". Something literally dropped in my midsection and now it feels like I have a bowling ball in my pelvis. I'm guessing that my evaporating back pain was more a function of the baby migrating south and less about my dedication to yoga.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
En route to the chute
I'm still waddling and wearing the one pair of shoes that still fit my swollen feet. Fortunately, I had oodles of energy this weekend, so I kept up with PapaBear while running errands over the weekend and making a spiffy impromptu dinner last night. Even made banana bread on Friday - you'll have to trust me on this as I just polished off the last crumb.
While I nest, the babe appears to be interested in escape. Based on all the wriggling I feel in my lower elevations, I suspect that she's crafting her exit strategy.
At times, it feels like my daughter is scratching her way out, like she has a dull spoon in hand with which she is slowly but surely working to break free. Remember that old movie in which prisoners of war dig a tunnel and carry out sand in their pockets? If POW can stand for Prisoner of Womb, then I might have a pending prison break on my hands.
My pregnancy library sheds very little light on this scratching sensation. The books have loads of information about the first 2 trimesters, but very little to say about the final days. Perhaps authors realize that pregnant women stop reading by this point. We are either asleep, stressing about labour, or jumping ahead to books on breastfeeding.
Has anyone out there felt as I do (ideally when you were pregnant)?
While I nest, the babe appears to be interested in escape. Based on all the wriggling I feel in my lower elevations, I suspect that she's crafting her exit strategy.
At times, it feels like my daughter is scratching her way out, like she has a dull spoon in hand with which she is slowly but surely working to break free. Remember that old movie in which prisoners of war dig a tunnel and carry out sand in their pockets? If POW can stand for Prisoner of Womb, then I might have a pending prison break on my hands.
My pregnancy library sheds very little light on this scratching sensation. The books have loads of information about the first 2 trimesters, but very little to say about the final days. Perhaps authors realize that pregnant women stop reading by this point. We are either asleep, stressing about labour, or jumping ahead to books on breastfeeding.
Has anyone out there felt as I do (ideally when you were pregnant)?
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The agony of de-feet
Just when I thought my grotesque form couldn't get more voluminous, I've discovered a new area of expansion. Today, the reality of swollen feet cannot be denied.
At some point this morning, I kicked off my shoes and settled in to work. Because the office is quiet, I padded back and forth to the printer in my socks. Heading further afield, I decided that shoes were appropriate.
That was when I had problems putting my shoes back on. Eventually, I crammed my tootsies back into their Bass Weejuns (yes, I have a pair of Weejuns), but they were unhappily cramped. My feet actually spilled up and over the loafers' tight rims.
For the rest of the day, I might have to sport my polka-dot Wellingtons or wear (slightly roomier) black shoes with brown pants...which option would be less objectionable to the fashion police?
At some point this morning, I kicked off my shoes and settled in to work. Because the office is quiet, I padded back and forth to the printer in my socks. Heading further afield, I decided that shoes were appropriate.
That was when I had problems putting my shoes back on. Eventually, I crammed my tootsies back into their Bass Weejuns (yes, I have a pair of Weejuns), but they were unhappily cramped. My feet actually spilled up and over the loafers' tight rims.
For the rest of the day, I might have to sport my polka-dot Wellingtons or wear (slightly roomier) black shoes with brown pants...which option would be less objectionable to the fashion police?
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Food as fashion statement
I just noticed a handful of dried cranberries resting on my boob-shelf. I had some craisins about an hour ago and only now discovered those that did not make their way into the gaping hole in my face.
I think I've had 3 visitors come chat in my office since snack time and no one mentioned a thing. Did they not notice? Did they think that I had adopted dried fruit as my latest accessory?
How I long for the day that I will return to a C-cup without my belly serving as foundational support.
I think I've had 3 visitors come chat in my office since snack time and no one mentioned a thing. Did they not notice? Did they think that I had adopted dried fruit as my latest accessory?
How I long for the day that I will return to a C-cup without my belly serving as foundational support.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Rituals and habits, nesting and otherwise
I am a creature of habit. A type A personality who likes order. Someone who finds clutter distracting from creativity. Even a less than mindfully originated set of commitments in my calendar can easily become a source of stress.
There are certain things that give me peace, most of which relate to the state of my home environment. An overflowing fruit bowl. A freshly washed kitchen floor. A distinct lack of laundry and ironing to be done. And yes, I make the bed every morning.
For the past 8 years or so, my morning routine has involved a good (although increasingly slow) run, stretch and shower. When BabyBear hit the scene, that run became a walk. Over the past week or so, however, I've missed more morning walks than I have taken. Partly it's the snowy sidewalks. Partly it's the knowledge that we won't control our waking time much longer. Mostly it's the ache that I've developed in my lower back that gets worse whenever I'm vertical.
Inspired by this afternoon's sunshine, PapaBear and I ventured out for a walk. We made it one whole kilometer before I climbed my front steps and headed upstairs for a nap. I clutched his supportive arm much of the way, tentatively taking granny steps and surely not burning any calories.
This marks the final phase of my fitness progression. I once ran marathons and now I do marathon sessions of yoga. Fingers crossed that it keeps me mobile for a few more months. And if I'm lucky, my nesting activities will burn a few calories when I'm not looking.
There are certain things that give me peace, most of which relate to the state of my home environment. An overflowing fruit bowl. A freshly washed kitchen floor. A distinct lack of laundry and ironing to be done. And yes, I make the bed every morning.
For the past 8 years or so, my morning routine has involved a good (although increasingly slow) run, stretch and shower. When BabyBear hit the scene, that run became a walk. Over the past week or so, however, I've missed more morning walks than I have taken. Partly it's the snowy sidewalks. Partly it's the knowledge that we won't control our waking time much longer. Mostly it's the ache that I've developed in my lower back that gets worse whenever I'm vertical.
Inspired by this afternoon's sunshine, PapaBear and I ventured out for a walk. We made it one whole kilometer before I climbed my front steps and headed upstairs for a nap. I clutched his supportive arm much of the way, tentatively taking granny steps and surely not burning any calories.
This marks the final phase of my fitness progression. I once ran marathons and now I do marathon sessions of yoga. Fingers crossed that it keeps me mobile for a few more months. And if I'm lucky, my nesting activities will burn a few calories when I'm not looking.
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