The dreams started about two months ago: I’m sprinting, hard, fast, on a track or in a race, breathless and full of endorphins. Sometimes I’m swimming in a lap pool or in a lake. I’ve even been water skiing. I feel light, athletic, happy, unencumbered.
Then I wake up, and I’ve got this gigantic anchor of a belly weighing me down. Coming back to the realization of my physical body, what seemed so invigorating in my dreams now sounds exhausting and even impossible. Getting out of bed is such an ordeal, I feel a bit like Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory when she blows up like a giant blueberry and they have to turn her sideways and roll her on the ground just to mobilize her. I rub my belly affectionately knowing this discomfort is temporary and well worth it. But I hate that the simplest things — walking a flight of stairs, unloading the dishwasher, even getting ready in the morning — make me breathless. And there are days I’d give just about anything to be able to pound out what I’m feeling onto the pavement.
I had all these great plans of being active during pregnancy. That was, of course, before I understood what pregnancy is like. I’m tired, slow-moving, sluggish, and don’t really feel motivated to lift more than a spoon for my Ben and Jerry’s. I know I should have been walking or swimming or yoga-ing, but to be honest I became a bit scared of exercise. During the entire second trimester I got strange spells of dizziness that made me nervous to even drive my car. Now, during the third trimester and months since I’ve done any real significant exercise, my mind is clearly craving movement while my body scoffs at the idea. Continue reading