Week 10 Day 4
I got off on my rants last night. It's maddening to be so different from your parents in fundamental ways. Today is a good day, I write this despite some concerns regarding my baby Olive, money, sanity, my career, what I am doing with my life, etc.
I've developed a terrible pain in my right heel, so much so that I can barely walk on it. I'm walking on the balls of my feet like a ballerina and was even doing port de bras in front of the bathroom mirror. "Agh!" I wailed. Should I give up writing like I gave up ballet. Of course not, neither is given up. Baby is simply taking all of my creative energy and is giving back so much in return - life experience in love, nausea, breast tenderness.. To tell you the truth, the nausea is much better.
Yes I'm living in a new city and trying to find myself, career-wise, but other than these two minor stressful points, life is lovely. My husband loves New York. I try to but I secretly do not. There is nothing to do here, I exclaim, but really the things are simply too far away and demanding. I cannot walk or stand for miles in my condition. I've become an invalid because in my last pregnancy we were in Toronto over the holidays and there was too much standing and exertion while baking five different kinds of gourmet Christmas cookies, including macaroons, the real French kind made of egg whites and almonds and cocoa powder. And my cookie press was sticking terribly. I had to squeeze hard until my palms were raw and sore but the spritz were perfect. After baking all day I attempted to walk to and through the winter solstice celebration and just could not because my back was breaking. I had to sit down immediately, in the street. Was this the cause of my miscarriage? I told my midwife that it must have been the cookie press because there is a pressure point at the bottom of the thumb in the palm that makes the uterus tip its contents. She wouldn't hear of my nonsense and drew diagrams of how miscarriages happen and why.
It makes so much more sense when there is a reason. My mother, over the phone from Kuwait, was convinced that I had been wearing high heels, causing my own miscarriage. "A pregnant woman should only take 20 minute strolls," she said. I, Westernized and scientific, decided to take my old mother's advice in this pregnancy.
So I don't do much physical activity at all, meditation and strolling excepted. I am waiting until the 2nd trimester, when the baby has clung to me. And so I wait in my studio apartment in the big city with my tiny baby floating inside me.
I've developed a terrible pain in my right heel, so much so that I can barely walk on it. I'm walking on the balls of my feet like a ballerina and was even doing port de bras in front of the bathroom mirror. "Agh!" I wailed. Should I give up writing like I gave up ballet. Of course not, neither is given up. Baby is simply taking all of my creative energy and is giving back so much in return - life experience in love, nausea, breast tenderness.. To tell you the truth, the nausea is much better.
Yes I'm living in a new city and trying to find myself, career-wise, but other than these two minor stressful points, life is lovely. My husband loves New York. I try to but I secretly do not. There is nothing to do here, I exclaim, but really the things are simply too far away and demanding. I cannot walk or stand for miles in my condition. I've become an invalid because in my last pregnancy we were in Toronto over the holidays and there was too much standing and exertion while baking five different kinds of gourmet Christmas cookies, including macaroons, the real French kind made of egg whites and almonds and cocoa powder. And my cookie press was sticking terribly. I had to squeeze hard until my palms were raw and sore but the spritz were perfect. After baking all day I attempted to walk to and through the winter solstice celebration and just could not because my back was breaking. I had to sit down immediately, in the street. Was this the cause of my miscarriage? I told my midwife that it must have been the cookie press because there is a pressure point at the bottom of the thumb in the palm that makes the uterus tip its contents. She wouldn't hear of my nonsense and drew diagrams of how miscarriages happen and why.
It makes so much more sense when there is a reason. My mother, over the phone from Kuwait, was convinced that I had been wearing high heels, causing my own miscarriage. "A pregnant woman should only take 20 minute strolls," she said. I, Westernized and scientific, decided to take my old mother's advice in this pregnancy.
So I don't do much physical activity at all, meditation and strolling excepted. I am waiting until the 2nd trimester, when the baby has clung to me. And so I wait in my studio apartment in the big city with my tiny baby floating inside me.
posted by Mama at 11:19 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home