Silas Jasper: His Birth Story

I read a lot of birth stories as I prepared for the arrival of Silas, and I dreamed of what mine would say. A successful VBAC, an intervention-free birth. A beautiful delivery. When we discovered Silas' breech presentation and subsequent efforts to turn him failed, I filed away the drafts. A scheduled C-section didn't seem deserving of a lengthy post. This post, though, reminded me that every birth is beautiful and every story is worthy to be shared.

◊ ◊ ◊

Four forty-five came quickly on April 10. For the second night in a row, I had slept fitfully. My efforts to rest were interrupted by trips to the bathroom and pangs of anxiety. Intermittent prayers and pleas to St. Gerard, patron saint of mothers, did little to ease me into slumber. If anything, it kept my mind racing.

But the time had come. Sleep did not matter now.

I nudged Mark out of bed and headed downstairs. I brewed a small pot of coffee for him and began to braid my hair. I heard the rich brew drip slowly into the carafe, and I tried not to breathe deeply, for fear of wanting it. I had to fast for six hours ahead of my scheduled arrival at the hospital, and the directives included nothing to drink – not even water and definitely not coffee.

The sound of Mark's heavy steps on our old wood floors snapped me out of a daze, one that had set in from the monotony and familiarity of twisting my hair. I glanced at the clock. The lime green digital numbers on the stove read 5:05.

We needed to go.

◊ ◊ ◊

I was on edge for the 20-minute drive to the hospital. I blamed Mark – he took too long in the shower, he didn't need to shave, he didn't have his stuff together. I picked at him for drinking coffee and driving, talking about topics of substance when I was barely awake and operating on empty.

I was being a brat. Plain and simple. So when he asked if I wanted the remainder of the commute to be in silence, I nodded.

◊ ◊ ◊

 

The security guard was accommodating when I refused to sit in the wheelchair upon arrival. He warned me that it was against hospital protocol but I reminded him that I wasn't in labor. I wasn't sick. I had two legs – two legs that I wouldn't get to exercise for some time. I wanted to walk while I could.

I was led to a labor and delivery room, where I was greeted by a nurse. There were questions to answer, blood to draw and things to prep. Namely me. I had six wipes and a detailed diagram of how to use them. It was clinical, procedural. It was not how I pictured my birth.

I got back in to bed and thought maybe I would rest. I thought I might have time to do so, or at leat watch TV, when I was told that I would need to be there at 5:30 a.m. for a 7:30 section. I feared I would be bored, would have too much time to think.

But I was wrong.

Not 15 minutes passed without someone coming into the room. My doctor, nurses, a rep asking if I wanted to donate the cord blood and placenta, nurses. A university professor inquired as to whether I would allow a nursing student to observe the procedure.

"Why not? What's one more person in the room?" I thought.

I began the process going through the motions, almost defiantly, but slowly I felt a bit of the anxiety dissipate. More of me came out. I still picked at Mark but it was mostly in jest, and I might have laughed. Once.

◊ ◊ ◊

The room was sterile. The lights were bright. The sound of metal instruments clinking metal trays and chatter filled the air. I could feel my legs weaken beneath me.

It was real. The C-section was going to happen, and I was going to meet my baby boy.

The nurse who would be with me through delivery and recovery was kind and reassuring as she led me to the table, offering a step up. I sat up and swung my legs to the side so I could face the wall. The anesthesiologist talked to me as I was prepped for the spinal. About her son, about the medications I would be receiving. She asked me if I was more sensitive – to medicine, to pain, to the IVs – because I was a red head. It's a question I got a lot. No, I responded, but everyone had decided that I was.

I tried to breathe deeply. Remain calm. Be strong.

I followed directions. I contracted my abs, slumped my shoulders and braced myself on my thighs. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Be strong. My nurse grabbed my hands and told me to push against hers. I breathed and pushed. The first needle went in and then a second. I pushed harder against the nurse's hands. I inhaled and with the exhale came the tears. Fat, ugly tears. They were filled with fear, regret, grief.

There was little time to wipe them. I had to quickly swing my legs onto the operating table before the spinal took hold. The tingling began in my toes and began to travel toward my waist. I had to bring my legs into a butterfly position, the nurses helping to get them just right. My arms were strapped into a T-position. My head rested down. Waves of nausea came over me.

"Am I supposed to feel light headed?" I asked. "I feel sick." One dose of medicine , then another, went into my IV. And then there was nothing but the flurry of activity around me.

The anesthesiologist behind my head, guiding a nurse as she prepped me. Other nurses got things ready for the doctor and still others were awaiting Silas' arrival. I was in a room full of people but never had I felt more detached, more alone.

I closed my eyes and breathed. I shut out the goings on. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. As I focused on the feeling of the air passing through my nostrils – the one and only thing I learned in a college meditation class – I could hear it. The music. Familiar and soothing, it could be best described as contemporary Christian. It was no doubt the choice of my doctor, as it's what is played in his office.
It's not necessarily my style as unless it can be played in an aerobics room, I don't pay much mind to music. But this. I knew this. And for that, I was grateful.

◊ ◊ ◊

I felt his hand on mine before I heard him. Dressed in too big blue scrubs and an unattractive cap, Mark was there. Next to me.

It was time.

My doctor, for whom I cannot say enough good things, talked us through the process. Narrating the cuts, what I would feel. The tugs. The pulls. Telling us he was almost there.

I could hear him trying to coax out Silas, his butt firmly planted in my pelvis. I could hear the declaration of success ... which was quickly followed by a surprise. Silas thanked the doctor for his help by peeing on him.

Yes, my child came out pissing and moaning. And, yes, despite some sourness over a C-section, I can still find humor. I just hope my dear doctor did.

Mark moved from my side to take pictures and quickly reported that Silas had brown hair and was peeing. Again. And then again.

Amid his screams, those shrilling newborn cries, I called out, "How are his legs? Do they go down?"

One of my great concerns, thanks to consulting Dr. Google, was that Silas would be stuck in the Frank breech position. He could have hip problems or another congenital problem that caused him to be breech.

"They're just fine," Mark said. "He can kick them down, I can tell you that."

◊ ◊ ◊

The waiting. It's the worst part of a C-section. Waiting for the procedure. Waiting for the delivery. Waiting to hold your baby. 

Everyone gets to see, to touch, your baby before you. And even when I could, I was almost hesitant. It wasn't because I was shaking uncontrollably from the drugs like I had with Miles. It wasn't because I was still strapped down.

Rather, I was afraid of what it would feel like. I had worried that I wouldn't want for Silas the way I had with Miles as I had spent so much time grieving the VBAC (or pouting as Mark said). I was afraid I'd resent him. 

But, as I had been assured and reassured by others, I couldn't.

From the moment the nurse handed him to me, unwrapping the blankets as she did so and placing him on my chest, he was mine. My dark and brooding boy who likes to make his own way on his terms.

Just like his mama.

On Nesting {+ Meal Plan}

Some people clean walls. Others scrub baseboards. I, on the other hand, hoard.

Food.

With a scheduled C-section imminent, one might assume I'd be nesting. I'd be cleaning, scrubbing, laundering and doing other things to get ready for the baby. But you would be wrong. The closest I've come, though, was finally scrubbing off the pen drawings above the toilet when I was sitting in the steamy bathroom to clear my sinuses.

#winning

But, knowing that recovery from the birth will be less than fun, my concern has been eating. I know I won't be headed to the grocery days after getting home and cooking will not be a priority.

Hence Operation Buy All the Food and Fill the Freezer.

Week by week, I've been stocking up on the pantry basics – fruit snacks, granola bars, cereal bars, applesauce pouches and dry pasta. I've grabbed jarred pasta sauce and boxed shells and cheese for the particularly rough days, and I have the basics for tuna casserole when I'm feeling motivated.

I've also been working on stocking the chest freezer in the basement. I'm making breakfast burritos by the dozen so Mark has breakfast for the first month, and I tripled my pancake recipe and made banana chip muffins for me. I've still got a ton of soup to eat for lunch, too. I have several packages of Laura's Lean Beef and ground turkey, too, so that we can make burgers or tacos.

And for the night's that we really need something, I made a turkey sausage lasagna and green chile enchiladas. Of course, I have those penciled in for the first week home with the baby but still. Dinner will be served!

Getting everything ready has felt like cramming a month's worth of meal planning into a week – and I guess it has been. Except that I still have to cook before this whole birthing party takes place.

#losing

Here's how our week is shaking up:

Friday: Stuffed baked potatoes
Saturday: Turkey Pepperoni Pizza Bites
Sunday: Easter dinner – ham, red potatoes and green beans
Monday: Spinach, Tomato and Pesto Quesadillas
Tuesday: Ham and cheese sandwiches with potato soup
Wednesday: Sweet Chili Chicken with Coconut Rice
Thursday: In-laws

Up In The Gym ...

Just working on my sanity.

Photo taken at 36 weeks. I'm now at 38 and change.

The comments I get when I walk into the gym usually fall into two categories: You Go Girl and How Do You Do It.

My answers are, respectively, thank you and because I need to. I usually leave out that my exercise routine is not as "hardcore" as I had envisioned when I found out I was pregnant. I'm not running 20 miles a week or getting in six days of workouts. My motivation is moderate, at best, and my days of early mornings are few and far between.

My views on my fitness right now have definitely been shaped by social media, having allowed myself to be sucked into the comparison trap and the idea that I need to be some kind of bad ass. But, my friends, bad ass has left the building.

Instead, here's how things have been looking for the past couple of weeks.

Monday: Barbell class

Tuesday: 40 to 45 minutes of cardio, usually incline walking on the treadmill or walking outside

Wednesday: Barbell class

Thursday: 40 to 45 minutes of cardio, usually incline walking on the treadmill or walking outside. I also lead boot camp in the evenings and usually do the warmup and part of the workout with the class.

Friday: Rest

Saturday: 45 to 50 minutes of cardio

Sunday: Rest

Last week, I skipped my Tuesday workout because of the version. I had intentions of making it up on the weekend ... and, yeah. Didn't happen. I felt bad about it for all of 5 minutes.

Despite the schedule not being as impressive as I hoped, I've been especially happy with how well I've managed teaching barbell. I've had to take some modifications, performing push-ups and planks on my knees, and I don't have full range on bentover rows or clean and presses. However, save for squats, I'm lifting the same weight I did pre-pregnancy.

And speaking of squats ... my range is much different, probably because of all the relaxin. I might not have 25 kilos on the bar but I still feel sore after class because I can get deeper with better form.

I am on the schedule at the Y through next week so unless a baby comes before that, this loose plan will be in place through 40 weeks.

After that, well, it's baby time.

All Things Considered

It has not been my week – for so many reasons.

Miles has been sleeping terribly. I have been sleeping terribly, if at all. The external version, which left me battered and bruised, did not work. Today, at my 37-week appointment, I scheduled my second C-section.

There have been other things, too. Things that I can't share here, in such a public place. They aren't life changing or earth shattering but during this week, they felt like it.

And so I've spent most of my waking hours in a mindless fog, teetering on the edge of crying and screaming. Sometimes falling into the pool of emotions, no matter where I may be.

But, on Thursday, I received a gift. It was unexpected. Beautiful. And exactly what I needed.

I was able to run. It wasn't fast nor far but my heart pounded, my body sweat, my mind cleared. For 42 minutes, I was able to put distance between myself and the thoughts clouding my brain.

I wasn't so sure I had another run in me. It had been six weeks since I had been sidelined by piriformis syndrome and as recently as two weeks ago, I couldn't even trot to keep up with Miles on his tricycle. A step with any acceleration triggered the pain in my right glute, and I immediately slowed to a walk.

But on Wednesday, I was trying to cross the street to get to my car after work. The break in traffic was small and, without thinking, I jogged to the opposite sidewalk. I didn't realize what I had done until I was opening my car door. I had ran, in ballet flats, without pain.

Could I do it again?

After a rough night, I knew I needed to do something for me. I dropped off Miles at daycare and headed to the Y. The game plan: Walk a 10-minute warmup on the treadmill and do a version of my favorite workout – 1 minute intervals with 2 minutes rest. I would jog the intervals at 5.0 and walk at 3.0.

I was nervous when I hit the button for the first interval. What would it feel like? Would I be able to do it? Even if it didn't hurt, where was my fitness at?

It seemed like it took forever for the belt to speed up. I needed it to hit a running pace, to see how it would go. And it went ... I mean there was an awareness there but it was tightness from weeks of sitting. It wasn't pain.

I was so focused on mechanics that by the time the clock hit a minute, it barely felt like I had done something. I decided that I would change the interval, at least this time, to 2 minutes running and walk 3 minutes. But a good song was on, and I felt strong. When I saw the display go from 1:58 to 1:59 to 2:00 ... well, I just couldn't stop.

I would at 3 minutes, though, I told myself firmly. I hadn't so much as jogged 30 seconds in 6 weeks and here I am at 37 weeks pregnant. Let's be real – and safe, yo.

I repeated the 3 minutes jogging interval, with 2 minutes rest, four times. My workout was at 30 minutes, and I figured that I could do 40 and sort of make it to work on time. For the fifth interval, I'd jog until I couldn't and then cool down.

But the cool down never came. I just kept running, to quote Forest Gump. The feeling in my butt changed but never grew and my gait never changed. My arms swung, my breath deepened, my gaze turned sharp as I looked through the floor to ceiling windows at the downtown traffic.

At 42 minutes, I pressed stop. I had hit 3 miles, running the last 1.02 or 1.03 – maybe a bit more. I wiped my brow and clumsily reached for my locker key. A sip of Nuun. A deep breath. I steadied my hands on the rails and stepped down.

I waited for the pain but all I could feel was elation. For 42 minutes, I had felt like me. I had found her underneath the belly and the boobs, the bitterness and frustration. She was still there. No matter what happened, and lawd did things happen, I had that to hold onto. To pull me back.

Tuesday.

"I'm not sure how it's humanly possible for someone to pee so much."

As I lumbered to the bathroom at 2 a.m., the fourth time since getting to bed at 9:30 p.m., it's all I could think about. Pee, why is there so much of you? WHY?!? I just want to sleep.

I get it – the whole pregnancy thing. The baby could have been sitting on my bladder. He could have been hosting a rave in my uterus and his glow stick hit my bladder. He could have been fist pumping into my bladder or doing an Irish jig on it. He's saucy already so I wouldn't put it past him. But, it's not like I woke up with a sensation and dribbled out a few drops in frustration.

No. It was not. I was in a full on pee at 2 a.m., Jimmy Dugan style. And it was making me angry. Irrationally so. I told myself that it wasn't worth it and in just a few weeks, the middle of the night peeing would be over.

I got back into bed and felt underneath my pillow. My phone. It was still there. Before my eyes drew shut, I considered turning off the alarm. Otherwise, it would wake me at 5:05 a.m. I fell asleep before I decided.

◊ ◊ ◊

There was no second guessing when I heard the ring. I knew I wouldn't sleep any more, and there was the urge to pee. Again.

I turned it off and headed downstairs, Denali in quick pursuit. I let him out and went about my routine. Go to the bathroom, slip on sports bra, put on socks. A shirt. Tie shoes.

And there were things not routine – grabbing my phone and checking to see whether there were new podcasts available for download; grabbing a pair of headphones from Mark's backpack; straightening the links of the leash. We were going to walk.

Or, apparently, I was going to walk. Denali saw the leash and bolted up the stairs. If dogs had the ability to give a middle finger, he would have done so as he moved faster than he has in weeks. And then he would have howled. With laughter, obviously.

"Fig it," I thought as I threw the leash on the couch. It will be just me and the road. And Jillian Michaels.

◊ ◊ ◊

I rarely listen to music when I run – even on the treadmill. It seems like such a hassle most days. That said, I do appreciate it when I need a distraction or motivation. Though I need both for a walk, I can't listen to it when I head out. Maybe it makes me want to run too much or maybe the beat is too fast for the 36-week waddle.

Podcasts and audiobooks are made for walking, though, My current audiobook is "All the Light We Cannot See" ... but it's on disc. As I no longer have a discman (sad times), I was grateful I had a new Jillian Michaels podcast.

I wound around the neighborhood, on what would have been a short loop just a couple months ago, and tried to drown out the boredom with talk of friends vs. stalkers and cake balls. Time passed slowly, giving me time to note the piles of ice still there, despite recent 50-degree days, and wave to other early risers. I even gritted my teeth to say "Nice job" to a runner moving so smoothly and quickly that I sort of wanted to throw a stick at him.

He said, "Hi." He didn't hear my pleasantries through the music playing in his ears. And so when he passed me again, I didn't give him any praise. I looked down and tuned into Jillian.

◊ ◊ ◊

I came home hungry. It might have been the cake ball talk or the baby. It certainly wasn't a sweat equity or calorie deficit.

A mix of canola oil and butter sizzled in the skillet as I prepped my breakfast – a slice of rye toast and two fried eggs. If only I had bacon, I thought, thinking of my dad and the way he would cover his eggs in black pepper. He'd dip cut up the eggs and scoop it up with bacon, soaking up the remaining yolk with the toast. Rye, often, as it's a Cincinnati staple.

I scrounged in the pantry till I found the pepper. Shake. Shake, shake, shake. Shake. I nearly sneezed ... and peed myself.

Redefining Fitness in the Third Trimester

"You're still pretty impressive."

I turned around to see one of my favorite smiling faces, standing near the stationary bikes. I had just finished a hill workout (read: walk) on the treadmill, and I was getting my purse out of a cube locker.

"Thanks. I'm slowing down a bit," I told him. "Just gotta keep moving."

"Exactly," he said.

As I walked down to the locker room on Thursday, I mentally kicked myself for not fully accepting the compliment. The gentleman was being nice – and supportive. It was the same thing that he had done on several occasions over the past few months as I've opted for the treadmill over the roads for safety. The other times, I know, I had been more accepting and grateful.

The difference was how I felt about my workout. On Thursday, I walked. The other days I had ran. On Thursday, though grateful that my piriformis syndrome had improved, I was not satisfied that I was walking. I did not feel proud of my 40 minutes on the belt.

When I was running, I felt challenged. I felt accomplished. And, to be frank, I felt smug. It was easy to take a compliment from that gentleman after a run because I felt like I earned it. Maybe, even, I felt like I deserved it.

The 30 days since my piriformis got angry and screamed at me have been challenging and humbling. I had gone from a bad ass mother runner to someone struggling to walk to someone who feels OK but not 100 percent. I have felt so many emotions – excruciating pain, hope, despair, fear, relief.

Most of all, I felt disappointment.

When it came to this pregnancy, I had some high expectations. I came into it in good shape and determined to set my own (doctor-approved) rules for running. I wasn't going to cut back because it was expected nor was I going to slow down until my body put on the brakes.

It was an approach that helped me achieve things for which I could be proud: running my second fastest half marathon and another sub-2 four weeks later; running a sub-9 pace at the Gingerbread Pursuit; and maintaining what I considered to be respectable mileage until that fateful run.

However, the success also allowed me to be far too driven by the numbers – something I would not advise to anyone whose body is loaned out to the whims of a growing fetus. I had gotten to the point where I not only thought it would be nice to run the day I gave birth but I expected it. Not only that, I think there was a part of me that thought I should because I needed to prove something – to myself and others.

A stupid notion. Insanely stupid.

And so as I take stock and look ahead to how I'll spend the next five or so weeks, I know that one of the most important things I will need to do is redefine how I view my fitness. I can't quantify by miles ran or paces hit.

But I can qualify it.

I can move with intention. "Shopping is my cardio," the wise Carrie Bradshaw quipped. And though I'd love to call a trip to Kohl's a workout, it's not – even if I let pretty things distract me while lugging around a slow cooker. I can set aside time to walk, cycle or lift heavy(ish) things for the purpose of raising my heart rate, improving my mood and dripping some sweat.

I can move with purpose. This sentiment is one that hit home when I did Silver Sneakers training. Many of the exercises that are incorporated into a Silver Sneakers session are designed to improve the ability to perform activities of daily life, such as putting on sweaters, reaching for something in a cabinet and buttoning a shirt. These folks aren't exercising for a ripped body, bragging rights or ego. They are doing it to live a better life.

I can – and will – do exercises that will help my piriformis and, as such, strengthen my hips for labor. Bicep curls will get me used to lifting a carseat. (How can a 6-pound baby feel like 60 pounds? Put him in a car seat!) I will give myself bonus points, not the brownie kind, for forgetting to change weight for arms during barbell and getting in some extra training. Woodchops are great mimic for the motion of picking up a baby out of the crib and putting him on your shoulder. However, there's no simulator for spit up.

I can move free of judgment. The gentleman at the Y didn't care that I wasn't running, and 98 percent of the general population does not think less of me for doing low-impact exercise. And if there are people on the interwebs who don't think I'm doing enough, that I'm enough (a lifelong fear), then it's because of the ridiculous expectations that have been established by the disordered beat Ms. Jones mentality. (Sadly, I wonder if I'm a contributor.) I am going to do the best thing I can – be me – and be accepting.

Happy.

Proud.

Period.

Winter Skin Care Tip + Other Randomness

I am not sure it's possible to tell you how excited I am to see this:

Yes, my friends, that is the forecast for Fort Wayne. It's a forecast that includes low temperatures warmer than the highs we've had this week. It's ridiculous and well deserved.

As much as I look forward to watching Miles ride his tricycle after dinner and taking walks, I'm most anxious to see an improvement in my skin. It is dry, cracked and almost permanently red. If I was more ambitious and had less respect for you, I'd take a picture ... but I'm only half-way through my {decaf} latte and want you to continue reading.

So, no picture.

I think the only thing that has saved my skin is a tube of NAAWK medicated lip balm that I keep in my front console. Every time I get in the car, I apply the balm to my lips and then the worst spots on my hands, mostly the knuckles. It's probably unsanitary, so I apologize, but the balm gives my hands the protection they need on mornings like today when it is 10. TEN DEGREES on March 6.

Whatever. Moving on.

Feed me. We usually pick up dinner or go out to eat on Fridays. However, we're going out to lunch tomorrow after our hospital tour, and Mark and I deemed it prudent to eat in tonight. The only hiccup in this plan, as I discovered this morning, is that we have no food. After we cleaned out the fridge, ahead of garbage pickup, all that remained was bare shelves. I used the last of the jelly this morning for Miles' 300th morning snack – a PB&J – because it was either that or a second bag of fruit snacks. Let's just say that I'm going to have to do some serious planning and list writing before I hit the grocery this weekend.

Rest up. Also on the agenda this weekend: Sleep. We had a sick dog this week, and we were up two nights with him. The night that Denali seemed OK was also the night that Miles decided to be awake for two hours. It happens, it's life, it's not the end of the world ... I know. And I recognize it's going to get a whole lot worse soon but dang, it was rough – and it showed on my face.

Big time. My fatigue hit me big time during my Thursday night boot camp slot. I was on the mat leading a stretch, and my eyelids were so heavy that they shut. Thankfully, I didn't actually fall asleep. For long. Maybe just a few seconds.

An aside, every time I walk in for that class, the instructor of the outgoing session likes to tell me how much bigger I've gotten. Yes, I am bigger this week. It's called GROWING A HUMAN. Dude is gaining a half-pound a week. What am I supposed to do? Suck it in.

That's all for now, friends. Happy Friday! And Happy Last Work Day of the Longest Week Ever!

How did your week fare?

From Good to Bad in 3.9 Miles {A Three Things Thursday Post}

Wednesday started out like any other Wednesday.

I got the boys fed and Miles ready for daycare. I reviewed my music for barbell class and found the only pair of capris that were both clean and belly compatible. I took out Denali ... and took him out again. I got Miles fed ... again. And, at 8:20, we set off for daycare.

But the day was going to be better than just an ordinary Wednesday. I knew it. After all, I had taken off the day just because. It was a me day.

1. Barbell class was great. I felt strong and on it, and there were a couple new faces. The demographics of my Y can make it challenging at times as English isn't always a first language but the new gals did great. They just brought a new life to the class, and I left feeling sweaty and rejuvenated.

2. After a quick trip home to shower and watch an episode of "Property Brothers," I was off to lunch with my running friends. It was Shannon's birthday so we decided to do something incredibly novel and see each other in real clothes. I have to say that I have some really good looking friends.

The bonus: The restaurant we went to is known for its epic grilled cheese sandwiches, and I didn't go wrong with the pesto version that features cheddar, swiss, provolone and muenster cheeses, tomatoes, artichoke hearts and pesto sauce on grilled sourdough. I paired it with the house salad (veggies!) as the restaurant has the best peppercorn dressing.

3. What better way to enjoy a day off than to go for a solo run? The weather was somewhat tempting at 37 degrees though it was dreary and there was a light rain. I knew I would brighten it up with my Pro Compression heart socks and a Fila Hoodie from Kohl's that I found at a post-lunch shopping trip. I had been eyeing it for months, and I found it on clearance for 70 percent off plus I had a 20 percent off coupon.

Things went from good to meh to bad once I hit the trail and no matter how cute the clothes, the run could not be saved.

I've been used to some aches and pains running – round ligament pain, the widening of the hips, low back – but I experienced something new. I felt a pain in my ass. Literally. It started out as a dull ache, one I thought that I would run through and work out. I stopped to stretch half way, and I felt like the run was never the same. It was as if the entire glute just seized up. I tried more stretches and it didn't work. I had to get home so I just gutted it out.

Once I got home, I stretched, foam rolled and used a softball to do myofascial release. I was sure that was all I needed to take care of the pain in my butt.

But I was wrong. It seemed to make it all worse. My right side was tight and now immobile. I was barely able to walk across the room, and it was not without wincing. It got progressively worse as the night went on and even going to the bathroom was a struggle.

The worst part was that I knew trips up and down the steps to help with bedtime was not going to happen. I had to have Mark bring Miles downstairs so I could read to him on the couch. And when Miles got fiesty, I couldn't comfort him.

Or myself.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't help but cry. Big fat tantrum tears as Mark handed me a cup of coffee. My right side was still tight, and moving was a challenge. I had Mark bring up crutches from the basement and I lumbered around.

At this point, I can barely walk – much less run. I just said Wednesday morning that running isn't important for me physically, though it is. I need it mentally. I need it to feel good about myself, to feel strong, to feel like me, to stay sane. I don't know what I'll do if I'll have to stop, especially now. If I have to take off weeks to rest (and I will if needed), I know I am done running for this pregnancy. I won't be able to just restart at 35 weeks.

I'm trying to be hopeful. I am. Baby boy could be sitting on my sciatic nerve and maybe a good roll will take off the pressure. I could have some luck with a more gentle approach to stretching and foam rolling, along with heat and ice.

If anyone has experience with piriformis pain, please send me your tips. And I'll take any good thought I can get, too!

Getting Over the Bump {Weekly Recap}

I'm linking up with Jesica at Runladylike to share my week in fitness.

I've started this post a million and one times, each draft ending with me whining and throwing the grandest of pity parties.

Running didn't go great last week. I'm getting slow, like a lot slower. My friends are too fast and getting faster. My belly is getting bigger – my ass, too, probably – and it's manifesting itself in a tight lower body. The feeling of invincibility I once had has been replaced with mediocrity.

In summation: Shit is not feeling great.

The thing is, I knew this was all going to happen and, had you asked me six months ago, I thought it would have happened a lot earlier. Things kept going well and part of me started to believe that it would never happen.

But it has. As my friend put it, I'm like really pregnant now (30 weeks/7.5 months). I have to put my big girl panties on (some really big girl panties) and deal with it. Or, I could stop running. However, I'm pretty sure Mark would fear for his life if the only reason I stopped logging miles was because I was acting like a petulant child, and I am fairly certain I will need him in 9 or so weeks and for the 30 years to follow.

As such, I promise this to you: No more bitching about pregnancy and being slow. It is what it is what it is.

So how's that for a recap?

WEEK'S WORKOUTS

Monday | Barbell class
Time: 45 minutes     

Tuesday | 5 miles, treadmill progression
Time: 48:26     Pace: 9:41

Wednesday | Barbell class
Time: 44 minutes 

Thursday | 6 miles, treadmill
Time: 1:00:30     Pace: 10:05

Friday | 4.06 miles, with Tami
Time: 41:25     Pace: 10:12

Saturday | 7.2 miles, with group

Time: 1:14:16     Pace: 10:18

Sunday | Rest

WEEK'S HIGHLIGHTS

• Running with Tami on Friday. The run itself wasn't all that great. The sidewalks were treacherous in places despite our best effort to find a safe route, and it was quite windy. However, we had fun while we were out there and even more fun celebrating at Starbucks after we finished the 4 miles. You cannot go wrong with coffee + Salted Caramel Cake Pops at 6 a.m.

• I wasn't able to keep pace with the gals I normally run with on the weekends but the change in pace gave me an opportunity to run with a relative newcomer to the group. She's coming back from an IT band injury so we haven't been able to run together much over the past few months. The 4.2 miles we shared was a great time to chat and (re)connect, as well as celebrate the calm before the storm.

• Hitting a January mileage PDR. The month came in at 98.09 miles, beating last year by more than 10. I'm not logging the farther runs on the weekend but I've been more consistent with my weekday mileage than I have in year's past.

WEEK'S STRUGGLES

I'm not posting any because I've been snarky enough. Also, I have a perfect life and would never struggle. Not ever, ever.

How did your week measure up?

The Morning Report

My heart is thumping and my hands fumble as I furiously try to slam down the gate of the freight elevator. Mark is standing next to me, passive and not the least bit helpful. When the metal clangs, I manically press the buttons. I gasp, taking my first breath in what seems like hours, as I feel my belly drop and the elevator rise.

The fluorescent lights are blinding as we step off, reflecting off the white floors and white walls. I walk slowly, wary of what lurks ahead. I have a chef's knife in my right hand, and I hold it at the ready. The undead are wandering, I know, having encountered them as we rushed into the freight elevator hoping to find a haven. Mark trails behind me, unconcerned with the danger and my safety, and my fury grows.

I proceed, deciding to leave him behind. The knife is still high, parallel to my ear, as I pass jewelry stores with looters blatantly breaking open cases as store workers stand idly. The hall turns to the right ...

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

I reach for my phone under the pillow and struggle to turn off the alarm. 4:45 a.m. the clock reads. It is time to rise and grind.

I tiptoe downstairs as Denali bounds like a freight train down the staircase. We both go to the bathroom – him outside, me on the toilet. I use the time to put on my running gear: sports bra, short-sleeve tech shirt and capris. Shortie Pro Compression trainers go on last. The time it takes to get dressed is my insurance policy, the extra minutes to make sure I am fully emptied.

4:52, the clock reads as I head to the kitchen. "Good," I think. I have enough time to switch over the laundry I started  last night. I make the trip to the basement, where I put dry clothes in a laundry basket and move over wet ones from the washer to the dryer (I had set it on delay so the cycle had finished an hour or so before). There is still pile after pile behind me and so I throw in a load of towels, feeling like a badass mother runner and a wee bit smug.

◊ ◊ ◊

The drive to the YMCA is short but slow as I'm being extra cautious. Freezing rain had come overnight and the walkway at home had been slick. It's a shame, too, as the air is delicious – 33 and calm. It would be perfect for a pre-dawn run around the neighborhood. But the fear (and risk) of falling is too great, and the treadmill is the more prudent option.

I am not quite sure how far I want to run. My mid-week runs have been 5 miles but I'm sure Mark will have a delay, and I could get in 6. And then there's my running log, that temptress. I am at 81 miles for the month and as I have three runs before the calendar turns, I could hit 100 miles. I have never hit 100 miles in January – never ever. I would just need to run 7 miles today.

I push it all aside and hit quick start on the treadmill. I start off at 5.6. I am not sure how I'll play with the settings but I wanted to be prudent at the beginning. The pace feels good, almost too much, and I hesitate to think what it will feel like as I inevitably bump it up. But at a third of a mile, I do – just 0.1, to 5.7. I sigh with relief that it feels good.

My eyes dart from television to television. Fox News is on one screen, reporting the shakeup in management at McDonald's. The blame, I can deduce, goes to Chipotle and other fast-casual but decidedly more upscale chains. I would shrug if it were possible. Chipotle > McDonald's. Always. The local news is on just below, and I see the delays start to flicker across the screen. The regional districts and then the parochial schools. I wait to see Fort Wayne and before I hit two miles, I do.

I could run 7 miles, my type A self thinks. The reasonable side of me tells me no. The third trimester is no time to be setting records. I'll already be running more than any other January, and I should be satisfied with that. And, after all, the treadmill will switch to cool down after 60 minutes. Do I really want to restart it to get in another mile?

No. The answer was no. I settle at 6 miles, finishing just over a 10-minute pace. I feel good but not winded, and I walk more normally off the treadmill than I have in weeks. (Thank you, Jess, for the support belt.)

◊ ◊ ◊

My mood goes from satisfied to stressed within minutes of getting home. I had gone to the bathroom, and I noticed a spot on an undergarment. Weird. I cleaned up and noticed more. I was spotting, or had spotted. A first for me in this pregnancy and maybe both.

I consulted Dr. Google as I made breakfast (a cheese omelet with a Morningstar veggie patty), searching "light spotting 29 weeks pregnant," and found a whole lot of scary stuff about bleeding. I wasn't bleeding, was I? I went back to the bathroom to check. Nope. Not bleeding. And, this time, there was nothing. I went back to Google. One message board said something about an irritated cervix after heavy activity. Hmph. If my cervix was getting cranky, we were going to need to talk.

I passed the time till I could call the doctor/midwife office by putting away all of the laundry. I swear 70 percent of it was Miles' clothes, 20 percent sports bras and Pro socks and 10 percent real clothes. It's so ridiculous, and I shudder thinking that the amount of laundry will seemingly triple come April.

At 8:20, I make the call and talk to the doctor in my practice. How much spotting? What color? How do you feel? Not much. Pink. Fine. He tells me not to worry as it's just some discharge. But I was running, I insist. Does that make a difference? Nope. It's fine. Do I need to not run? Nope. It's fine.

I hang up, relieved. Mark suggests that maybe it's time that I start dropping down a bit. From 6 miles to 5, he assures me. I gape. He didn't seem to care when we are at the mall in my dream, now did he? He can't just pick and choose when he is concerned.

And then I laugh. I probably shouldn't hold my dream against him.

"We'll see. I'll think about it. But maybe. Probably."

Celebrating the Good: Week in Review

Friend and fellow blogger Jesica, aka Runladylike, recently kicked off a weekly training/week-in-review link up. I'm joining her this week to share how I have been getting my move on.

"I'm in awe." 

I looked up, wiping the sweat from my eyes, as I walked away from the treadmills. A fellow YMCA member who was walking on the belt smiled at me. His look was kind and his words complimentary as he continued. I was an inspiration and he hoped to do what I was doing someday.

"So, he wants to be a hot mess," I thought to myself because on that day, and most of last week, that's how I felt. Like a hot mess.

Last week, it was like a switch went off. I was officially in the third trimester and everything just got harder. A 9:30 pace on the treadmill is not going to happen anymore, with 9:45 an effort and 10:00 comfortable. Running 4 miles is bliss, 5 miles is good, 6 is OK and ... well, we haven't tried anything else. 

As such, I was feeling a bit discouraged but determined to move toward acceptance. When I headed out for a run on Sunday, I decided that I would run what felt good for as long as it felt good. Four miles or six. Ten-minute pace or 11 minutes. I would just go, and I would go without looking at my watch. 

Maybe it was the feeling of freedom or the relatively mild weather (low 30s and calm winds) or the chance I might see Lauren Fleshman on my run but I ran with peace. The bad, frustrating runs from earlier in the week were behind me and though the next few months remain uncertain, I knew that I had a clear road ahead.

Note: I seriously missed seeing Lauren on my route by 10 minutes, I later learned. B-U-M-M-E-R. 

WEEK'S WORKOUTS

Monday | Barbell class
Time: 45 minutes     

Tuesday | 5 miles, treadmill intervals
Time: 49:08     Pace: 9:49

Wednesday | Barbell class
Time: 44 minutes 

Thursday | 5-mile run with Tami
Time: 49:21     Pace: 9:52

Friday | 5.1 miles
Time: 50:44     Pace: 9:57

Saturday | Silver Sneakers Training

Sunday | 6.05 miles

Time: 59:02     Pace: 9:45

WEEK'S MEALS

One of my goal's for 2015 was to be better about meal planning, especially for lunches. While it hasn't gone perfectly, I continue to make a solid effort. I am eating out less at lunch time and making several lunches at a time for grab-and-go convenience.

Monday | Broccoli soup with garlic bread

Tuesday | In-laws

Wednesday | Korean chicken over brown rice

Thursday | Chicken bacon pasta

Lunch | Split pea soup (finally made it) and Greek-inspired salads

WEEK'S HIGHLIGHTS

• Giving myself permission to take it easy. It's very hard for me to find middle ground – I'm either 100 percent in or completely giving up. Pregnancy is not a time for either, and I'm slowly making progress (on the mental front) toward that.

• Passing my 28-week glucose test! My diet has been a bit, err, carb rich and I was slightly worried that it would show on my test. But I was good to go.

WEEK'S STRUGGLES

• Silver Sneakers training was about 9 hours of my day Saturday, when including commute, and I had to get creative with scheduling runs. It meant two early days in a row, which is tough for me, but I was better for it. 

• Food aversions? I'm not sure what it is but I'm feeling a bit apathetic toward a lot of dishes, and I can't get excited about healthy foods. Broccoli?  Don't bring it near me. Actually, most cooked vegetables aren't very appealing. The good thing, I guess, is that I have no taste for ice cream.

A big thanks, Jesica, for hosting. If you link up with her, be sure to let me know so I can check out your post.

My Running Pregnant Experience {Second Trimester}

26 weeks, 3 days.

I am that much pregnant. And, in 10 short days, I'll be in the third trimester ... the homestretch.

I'll spare you the babble about how I can't believe I'm almost in the third trimester because, well, it would be a lie. I feel like I've been pregnant forever. When a running friend said on New Year's Day that I'm going to be stupid fast when I come back after the baby, I was dumbfounded. Not by what she said, because it would be clutch to be stupid fast this summer, but because I don't remember what it's like to run not pregnant.

And that's why we're here. To talk about running pregnant, specifically how it's been going in the second trimester. (CLICK HERE for my post on the first trimester.)

Highlights: Going sub-2 at the Haunted Hilly Half with Kim; taking on the #RWRunStreak; and finishing the Gingerbread Pursuit 4-miler at a sub-9 pace.

Numbers: 349 miles ran (so far); 8:39 pace at the Bourbon Chase was my fastest run; and the Haunted Hilly Half was my farthest

How I am feeling: For the most part good though some days are better than others. It seems to take me a bit longer to get in a groove and, by the time I do, it's almost time for the run to be over. But I'm happy to be running.

As the weeks progress, I have had to manage what I assume is round ligament pain. I don't have it every run but, if I do, it's usually in the first two miles. It can be so uncomfortable that I contemplate stopping but once my ego agrees, it has passed. I've also had some discomfort akin to stitches in that it's in the belly/sides and not worrisome – just annoying. I am considering getting a support belt to see whether it alleviates the feeling and helps improve my running.

Pace: I have noticed my pace drop during this trimester where in the first trimester, because of my Fort4Fitness training plan, I actually got faster. I've gone to running 9:15 comfortably to the 9:30 range with 9:45s feeling better. If I'm on the treadmill, I'll start my runs at 5.8 or 5.9 instead of 6.1 or 6.2. I usually finish with the same pace, even if it's a push to the finish, but it takes me longer to reach the faster paces.

I've been waiting to get slower, significantly, for quite some time, warning those who go out with me and playing down my runs. Still, I'd go on about how I was surprised that my pace wasn't slowing but I was ready. And now that I think it's time, I'm going to be honest: ego-wise, it's really hard to acknowledge that I need to allow myself to step off the gas a bit. I need to not only be OK with logging slower miles in my spreadsheet but happy with it.

Cross training: I'm teaching two barbell classes a week, and I do the workout with the class. I don't lift as much during squats but my weights are comparable to pre-pregnancy on other tracks. I still teach a bootcamp class on Thursday nights (all are at the Y) but I have switched to leading and demonstrating good form. All plyometrics, save for some jumping jacks during a warmup, are out.

Looking forward: If I can get over myself (see above), I'd still like to run 20 to 25 miles a week as my body can handle it. I can't keep my (relative) speed – super coach and local superstar Justin Gillette says it's not possible – so I want to try for the endurance part. I ran 8 miles a couple weeks ago with the run group and it was challenging because of the pace. I might try that again this weekend, on my own, to see if that's feasible. Otherwise, I'll stick with four runs a week of 5 to 6 miles and maybe one shorter run of 3 miles.

Comeback queen?: I know, I know. I haven't even had the baby yet and who knows how things will go. BUT, it's nice to look at races and think about them, especially when that's what my running partners are doing. I will likely skip the summer, even the shorter races, and work toward doing the Double Play at Fort4Fitness, running the 10K and 4-mile. If anything, I'll "race" the 10K and walk the 4-mile with Baby X in the stroller. The race would set me up nicely to do the Bourbon Chase again, if my team wins the lottery. Kim mentioned a fall half, which is a possibility since we'll both be post-baby and run it for fun. It will be 2+ hours without kids needing us.

The big goal, right now, is a fall marathon in 2016. I've got it in my head that I want to try for Marine Corps and, if I don't get in, Twin Cities.

Sound off: Has anyone run with a support belt? Do you have a model you'd recommend?

Birth matters: Attempting a VBAC

This post has nothing to do with running but a lot to do with health and even more to do with lady business. Feel free to skip.

I don't know what a contraction feels like. I didn't feel my water break. I didn't push. I didn't cry out. With a cut and a tug, I was a mom.

On July 7, 2011, I didn't care that I hadn't experienced labor. I was just happy to have a 5-pound, 14-ounce baby in my arms who, by all accounts, was healthy. He had 10 fingers and 10 toes and rated high on the Apgar test. And, oh could he cry.

But in the months and years to follow, I began to wonder. I wondered if I had been able to have a successful, natural birth whether I would have had a better milk supply. I wondered whether I really needed to be induced that day and whether I could have been a better advocate for myself.

I never felt that by having a C-section that I was less of a mother or less of a woman but there was something missing. It wasn't tangible. I couldn't explain it — and I still can't — but Miles' birth story never sat right with me.

So when it came time for baby No. 2, even thinking about it, I knew one thing: I wanted to attempt a VBAC — a vaginal birth after Cesarean. Again, I couldn't explain why. I hadn't done extensive research nor watched any documentaries (though I since have). The most articulate answer I could give when asked why was that I just wanted a chance at the process. I didn't want to have a second Cesarean just because nor did I feel right choosing my child's birth day.

I just wanted to experience birth, what I could of it. The good, the bad and the ugly.

Of course, it's not that easy. "Mothers who deliver a first baby by C-section are about 90 percent more likely to deliver subsequent babies that way, too." {Source} I couldn't just go to my doctor and request a VBAC. I had some work to do.

It was in my best interest and that of the baby's to seek out a physician who was not only committed to avoiding C-sections when possible but had a good track record for VBACS. I switched to a new practice, led by a reputable doctor, that included midwives.

I started reading and watching. Just because is not a good enough answer for my friends and family when I share what I'm hoping to do. More importantly, it's not good enough for the doctor. VBAC candidates must show a commitment to education, whether going through a special workshop session by a local, non-hospital-affiliated group or doing it on her own. I can now say that I want a VBAC because it will enable me to parent better, avoid major surgery and is better for baby and me. (I'm also hoping that it will lead to a better milk supply this time around so that I can nurse happier and longer.)

I started building courage. It's not just because I will be delivering a baby for the first time, something unknown, if I'm successful. If I'm going to do this, I need to be mentally strong and firm in my decisions. I need to be willing to fight for myself and for the baby. I'm known to be stubborn but I can also be timid and afraid, and I find it difficult to stand up for myself. It takes work. It takes courage.

And I will need it.

According to the Consumer Reports piece cited above:

“What it boils down to is culture,” said Elliot Main, M.D., director of the California Maternal Quality Care Collaborative and former chairman of the department of obstetrics and gynecology at the California Pacific Medical Center in San Francisco. “Culture of the hospital, the nursing staff, even the patients.” He points out that hospitals with a culture of facilitating vaginal birth—those that allow vaginal birth after cesarean, for example, or those where 10 percent or more of births are attended by nurse midwives—have far lower rates of C-sections.

Why do I share this? I want to hear your stories, good and bad. I know very few people who have attempted VBAC and the success stories I read don't always resonate with me.

The Big 10

I didn't immediately recognize the car as I drove to the meeting spot but as I pulled into a parking space, it registered. There in her Outback was a member of the running club. She's a tough, fast lady whom I met last year on the fun that was running in the polar vortex. It had been a while since I had ran with her, as many of the group run long on Saturdays.

But it was Sunday. Just shy of 9 a.m. And there she was.

Another car pulled in. A red one and out popped another club member. She's a spunky one, a girl I'm sure I'd be friends with if I had more time for a social life and to attend the regular runs during the week. I wasn't expecting her either.

Before we took off that morning, there were seven of us. Seven buddies on the trail for my swan song. The run would be my last attempt at double digits before this belly of mine puts limits on my running.

We ran two out-and-backs — 2.5 miles out toward the university and then back and 2.5 miles toward downtown and back. It allowed me the chance to fuel and hydrate without the cumbersome task of carrying Nuun, and it gave some of the others the chance to run part of the miles with me and keep other obligations.

I announced at the beginning of the run that I wanted to keep a 9:30 pace — no faster — and I needed help sticking to it. Partially because le Garmin has been moody and not always picking up satellites despite a software upgrade. The other reason is that my long run the previous week felt tough, and understandably as it was 8 miles at a 9:13 pace — on the faster side for me.

After mile 3, I got a check. J called off a split — 9:04. If I wanted to do 9:30, we needed to slow down. I needed to slow down.

But it felt OK. It wasn't terrible. The miles seemed like they were clicking.

And so it went, just as running thus far in pregnancy has. I expected it to be difficult and though not easy, the mileage goal was feasible, the pace sustainable and the reminders of pregnancy few. It was as if I was on just any other long run with some of my favorite people.

Except I knew that while they train for spring marathons, I'll likely be cutting back mileage and making fewer group runs. But it was OK. I was content. Satisfied. I was — and am — ready to accept whatever it is to come, whether it's 18 more weeks of happy running or something else.

I had my 10 miles under the fuel belt. I had ran them — and at a 9:21 pace.

Belly up: Modifying exercises for pregnancy

Knees, belly, knees, rise. Knees, belly, knees, rise. Find that belly button and introduce it to the bar. Knees, belly, knees, rise. Knees, belly, knees, rise. Belly up to that bar, y'all.

I've repeated those cues, given during a barbell row, so many times over the past 2.5 years teaching Bodypump and Rip (a non-licensed barbell program very similar to BP) that I repeat them without thinking. The moves, too, are nearly second nature.

But as I was teaching this week, demonstrating from the side to illustrate a neutral spine, I noticed that my elbows weren't going straight back. My bar was going straight to the belly. Well, it was but my changing body has also changed my range of motion. I was having trouble really hitting the traps and lats, which are the primary muscle groups targeted in a bentover row.

It was a bummer, and I had to fight not to let it affect the class. The back track is one of my favorites to teach — and to perform. It's intense and strong, and I love the results — physically and physiologically. I can't do it being sullen. Rather, I need energy and power.

After class, after the benches were put away and the weights racked, I grabbed a light bar and thought about what I could do. Here's what I came up with:

Change the range. The traditional grip row (in Bodypump) goes knees to belly button to knees. There are other grips, though — mid and wide, each changing the target of the motion. By going with a wider grip, I bring the bar to the rib cage, which is unobstructed.

Refocus. After a few reps, it's easy to get sloppy with form. The result? Sub-par results and possible injury by recruiting secondary muscles to do the work. Taking a millisecond before each rep to rotate at the shoulders and bring the elbows to the midline can make the difference in a workout.

Mind to muscle. The neuromuscular pathway is something we don't think about training but they are the foundation of good form and achieving results.

"Neuromuscular pathways are the communication channels between the brain and the muscles. Whenever a person wants to perform a certain movement, skill, or task it is along these pathways that the brain informs the body’s muscles what action is going to be required to accomplish the goal at hand." (Source)

For me, a part of this training is being very conscious about what I'm doing during each part of the movement. I focus on the shoulder blades squeezing together as I bring the bar back. I hold the top of the row briefly to feel the pinch. I feel the muscles return to a resting state as the bar goes down. My focus is feeling those muscles work, feeling the concentric movement and the eccentric. It really helps to achieve results. For example, when I put this focus into a squat, squeezing the glutes at the top of the movement, I am sore for days.

Switch equipment. During a class, this might not always be an option but changing the form of resistance can lead to a better range of motion. A band row, for example, comes from the knees to the ribs. Elbows still shoot straight back and the shoulders still come together but the range of motion isn't determined by the size of a belly. A dumbbell row is another option, and performing a single version allows for more unobstructed movement.

Change exercises. A bentover row is one of my favorite exercises for targeting the posterior but there might be a time when I need to change it entirely. A reverse flye would focus on the trapezius and rhomboids while also recruiting the triceps and part of the deltoids. A band pull will target the same area.

Disclaimer: Though I am an ACE certified personal trainer and a certified Bodypump instructor, I am not your trainer. Please consult a medical professional before beginning any exercise program and seek out a fitness professional to discuss proper form. These modifications are based on my personal experience and should not be considered professional advice. 

7 things I learned on the road this weekend

9.5 miles on Saturday + 6.7 miles on Sunday = my highest mileage weekend in a long time.

It was nearly the perfect weekend to do it as the temperatures were above freezing both days, and I didn't caught in any rain, despite setting records this weekend. I was grateful I had the opportunity to run — and for the lessons I learned along the way.

1. Running a point-to-point course is fun. As in, you don't ever see the same stuff twice and there's no chance to bail. If you are 4 miles from a vehicle, you have to run 4 miles. Period.

Our long run took us from a local university and along the course for the city's Thanksgiving day 15K. It was a bit hilly in the beginning as we ran through a historic cemetery but it flattened out as we headed west toward the industrial park where we would finish. Part of the path was quite familiar from other long runs but the cemetery was unfamiliar grounds, and it was eerily nice to run through it.

Not my friends and me but a shot of the cemetery where we ran.

2. Running a point-to-point course is less fun if you are running straight into a headwind the entire time. Winds on Saturday were 16 mph, and I know there were some gusts in there. It was bearable at times and others, it was downright miserable. I needed some big, hulky dudes to run with — not the two petite, beautiful women with whom I was keeping company.

3. 9.5 miles is significantly farther than the 8-mile long runs I've been doing the past two weeks. I was ready to be done at 8 and though I knew I'd finish the run, I didn't know how much of a slogfest it would be. I nearly hugged my friend in delight when she asked to walk up a hill just shy of the 9-mile mark. YES!

4. The post-long run hunger is no joke now. Not that it ever was, I guess, but it has reached insane levels. I was so ravenous by the time I got home Saturday afternoon that I brought a yogurt and granola bar to eat while I took a bath. Yes, I could have eaten and then drawn the water but I was cold and needed a soak. There was no way I could choose between eating and getting warm — I had to do both.

5. Denali is not as out of shape as I had expected. I decided to split up my Sunday run, taking Denali for the first part and then finishing up on my own. I told Mark that I would probably do 2 miles with the dog but no more. My running math is always bad, especially when combined with a GPS that was off, and the first loop was 3.5 miles. To my surprise, Denali was happy and strong the entire time. I'm kicking myself for not doing this type of run earlier as the weather, lately, on weekdays has not been conducive to getting out of bed or running safely.

6. A sports bra is not an appropriate place to store a cell phone nor is it wise, especially if the case is not snapped on appropriately. OUCH! The upside, if there is one to a pinched and chafed nipple, is I got a good half hour further in the "Wild," which I borrowed on audiobook from the library. I had a looming return date and the run helped me finish it in time. Verdict? Loved it. I wonder if I can go hike the PCT. Like, now.

7. I think I might be on the verge of dropping my mileage a bit. I was telling my midwife that I wasn't feeling as good as I had. However, I do want to give it a week or two to see whether it was just a bad run or my body letting me know I need to scale back. I also want to, if I can safely, hit 10 miles one more time in a farewell long run.

Diary of a Pregnant Runner: Entry 1

Dear Diary,

This morning, I sat down on my run. Literally. As in, I bent my knees and put my bottom on the grassy hill of a stranger's front yard.

The issue: I had to tie my shoe. The laces of my right Ravenna was loose and off to the side, and I could feel my foot slipping. My Achilles stressing. My arches aching. I needed to fix it.

I stopped just after the buzz indicating that I had finished my second mile. I wiped the sweat from my face on my orange For Two Fitness tank and began to bend over. But I only made it to a 45-degree angle at the hips. I could have gone further, I venture as I'm not showing that much, but I just didn't want to. I needed to stop. To catch my breath. To lighten the heaviness on my chest.

From the moment I set off on the 4-mile jaunt, I was aware that it would not be the easiest of runs. The legs, even after Saturday's hilly half, felt good – or at least functioning. My breathing, though, was labored. I felt heavy from the waist up. Discomfort and near burning radiated from my heart.

It was the boobs. If I was less apathetic and, to be honest, anxious about my weight gain thus far, I would be able to give you an estimate of how much the womanly mounds have grown. Nonetheless, I feel secure in saying that a third of the pounds are in my chest. Mark read a woman can gain up to 7 pounds in the breasts during pregnancy. Though I think he's being optimistic and would have considered it far fetched 12 weeks ago, I can believe it. I have, after all, gone from "barely there" to "hello there" and feel as if they are trying to keep pace with my growing belly.

A new bra, purchased in a medium to accommodate the girls' new size, still felt unsupportive. Bounce, bounce, buh-bounce they went as I lumbered down the street. Thankfully, they are not of a size at which I would have to worry of being hit in the face for choosing a bra on the Target clearance rack and not the running store ... yet. However, I was beginning to fret that they could free themselves from the medium support shelf garment and create an unsightly situation.

In the beginning of the run, taking the first steps down my block, I wondered nearly aloud whether I should have stayed in bed. I tried to remind myself that, physiologically, it takes the body's energy systems several minutes to catch up. I would breathe better when I got to the intersection near the church. I would slow down and feel lighter once I got to the park. I could slow down more and take a breather at mile 2.

So at the house just north of the gas station, with the flood lights illuminating the patch of grass where I sat, I was forced to acknowledge that it wasn't going to feel better – at least not today. And that was OK. I got up and wiped the sweat off once more (it was 67 degrees! On Oct. 28! In Indiana!) and started again. The run, the Garmin. My search for the right pace.

I plodded along, wondering how I felt at this point in my pregnancy with Miles. But I could not remember. Somehow, I lost myself in the black hole of my brain, and the distance that I had ran became greater than what remained. The urge to complete it was stronger than the urge to quit. Although, as I rounded at home at 4.43, I will admit there was no desire to run down the block to hit an even 4.5 nor one to run around two blocks to log 5.

I was done ... for the day.

xoxoxo,
K

P.S. Hopefully, lovely diary, this will be the last entry for a while about this topic. Smooches.

Things you didn't want to know {A Three Things Thursday post}

1. One of the side effects, symptoms, happy rewards of pregnancy is that the belly isn't the only thing that grows. The blobs of fat that sit atop the pectoralis major muscles do as well. I have gone from a barely there A cup to a full C. And though it's not particularly bothersome, it has created a new set of challenges.

I was running with BRF Tami on Wednesday morning in a sports bra that had served its purpose just fine during previous runs. It's comfortable and easy to slip on from overhead, which is exactly why I had selected it the night before. We had gotten no farther than a half-mile when I declared that this run would be the bra's farewell. I am fairly surprised that everything stayed as it should - contained - and I was thankful for the dark skies of the early morning so no motorists could see the atrocity of the bouncing.

Other sports bras, while able to keep movement to a minimum, have been just as problematic as they are tight and uncomfortable. Some so much so that I can find it hard to find a good breathing pattern in the early minutes of a run.

Foundation garments for workouts should be replaced every six months, according to my local running store expert, so it seems that I need to get a new set for the duration of Baby X's gestation. Any recommendations for supportive and easy to put on garments are greatly appreciated.

2. I'm fairly certain that I have a toe nail preparing to say its goodbyes. The second toe on my right foot, per the usual. I noticed that it was feeling awful tender this weekend, and I'm blaming the hills of Kentucky. I should also blame myself for wearing my Saucony Fastwitch on said downhills as they offer less support. I am hoping to coerce the Boss into sending me to the salon for a pedicure to see what happens with some TLC and trimming.

3. I got my hair today, with my stylist lopping off my mullet. As I do my best to grow out last year's pixie experiment, I've found that the worst part is the little rat tail that seems to appear just 10 days before my appointment. Though I often feel nostalgic for the 1980s and my childhood, I'm not that nostalgic and would be more fulfilled to find a small curling iron and do my bangs.

Share: What are your "who cares" tidbits?

***

Deal alert: October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and Pro Compression is taking note. With your purchase of any products featured on this page, including any color Women's Leggings, we will donate a portion of each sale to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

 Save 40 percent when you enter coupon code PINK at checkout. Free shipping is available for your purchase over $20 (after discount), shipped to your US address. The leggings are an especially rad deal as they are already on sale for $50. I have a pair and love them for workouts. They don't have compression, making them comfortable and easy to wear. They fit true to size - I purchased a 6, which is what I also get from lululemon.

Training During the First Trimester

Writer's note: These are my personal experiences with running while pregnant. My midwives/doctor know that I am a runner, and I have been cleared to exercise. I am a certified personal trainer but I am not issuing advice as a fitness professional. This is me, a mom, sharing what I did.

The kitchen. Mark, me. The laptop open. A calender marked. We counted backward. We counted forward. We studied. We stood. In silence.

The plan had been to get pregnant this year ... after the race. We were going to "try" when my body was in prime shape from hard training but my miles were down. We were going to pray for a summer baby.

But there we were, in the middle of this summer. In the middle of a tough training cycle. I was pregnant, and the race was seven weeks away. A positive test can bring so many unknowns, as can a training cycle. I didn't know how one would go, much less the other and putting them together ... well, it was a black hole.

We talked, though, Mark and I. We discussed whether I should keep following the training plan or just go with a less advanced schedule. We talked about still doing the half or dropping down to the 10K. We talked and talked and talked. But no matter how much we did, we came back around to the same answer:

I needed to try to do my best at Fort4Fitness. I wanted to give myself the chance.

When I found I was pregnant with Miles, I had just finished a 16-mile trail race. I was the fastest and fittest I had ever been. But, with the news, I dropped back my mileage - significantly. It wasn't that running felt bad. Oh, no. The decrease was just because I thought I had to. It's something I regretted since, and I knew I would change it the second time around.

Running what I could would one thing, but doing it at a more challenging level would be another.

Before I made the commitment, 100 percent, I wanted to know as much as I could about pregnancy and exercise. Even though I'm a certified personal trainer and the materials include information on special populations and pregnancy, it didn't feel like enough. It is generalized and focused on exercising for general fitness. I searched for studies about exercise during pregnancy, specifically those about intensity and duration. I was disappointed but not surprised that I could find few.

It’s understandable, however, why the medical community has been slow to endorse exercise, and running in particular, during pregnancy. Research in this area is inherently difficult. There are ethical concerns about research involving pregnant women, and much of the data comes from research on animals. Human studies have been difficult to compare because of differences in study design; maternal fitness levels; varied exercise activities, intensities, and duration; and the time during the pregnancy the exercise is performed. Despite these difficulties, when everything is evaluated together, clear maternal benefits can be gained from running during your pregnancy. 

 - Source

Much of what I found was in line with the adage: If you did it before you were pregnant, you could keep doing it. And I had been doing it. Other studies were so complicated, language-wise, that I found myself looking up every other word in the dictionary. The best thing I found was a summary of two case studies from 1989, grossly outdated by my standards.

And so I decided that I would do what I could do: Take every run at a time. I would finish the training cycle and go into the race with adjusted expectations, knowing that I would need to continue to adjust as the weeks went by.

Save for a stomach bug during week 8, I felt surprisingly good until week 10. I didn't have real morning sickness. I had no cramping or pain. I didn't spot or leak. My recovery might have been slower and my easy runs easier, but I continued to run strong without feeling like I was jeopardizing my safety or that of the baby. It was only when I hit the double digits (pregnancy wise) that I just began to feel tired during the runs, though it could have been the cumulative effect of training. And, of course, there was an increased urge to go to the bathroom. I am, to this second, surprised that I didn't have to pull off during Fort4Fitness.

The one change that was unexpected was in the bosom area. While I could not pinpoint a particular threshold, there were times during a run when I would experience a stinging sensation - as if I was going to shoot two lasers through my sports bra. It does not hurt. Rather, it's just disconcerting. I spoke with my midwife and she said the increased sensation in the area combined with the fabric rubbing could create that feeling. It doesn't help that I have grown two cup sizes and my bras are a bit snug.

Heading into the second trimester, I have no expectations. I will run what I can, when I can and do it safely.

Baby, You Got My Number: Fort4Fitness 2014

There were hopes. There were tears. There were shouts.  And, once again, Fort4Fitness proved to be magic.

I didn't get my PR. I was about 1:30 off with a time of 1:55:47. I am proud of that time, though. So, so proud.

It's my second fastest time out of my 13 half marathons. I bested my time from last year's race by three minutes. I broke 2 hours by a considerable margin.

More importantly, maybe, I didn't give in. When I hit a wall at the 10K mark, slowed to a walk and burst into a sob-filled rant about training so hard, I picked a sign then picked up my feet. It didn't always last, the quickened pace, but every split that was not what I wanted thereafter was followed by a better one.

And I managed to do it all at 12 weeks pregnant.

Please, don't get me wrong. I am by no means special for running this race pregnant. There are other mother runners who have attempted and completed far greater physical feats than this. But to hold onto the dream, still entertain a PR, might have been a bit optimistic.

It was not unfounded, though. I had been running well when I got the news and continued to do so for some quite time. I really thought the goal was achievable until the past two weeks. It was then when things just started to get harder and not as fun. I didn't know whether it was Baby X (due April 2015) or just burn out or both.

So, on race day, I didn't know what to expect - not that anyone ever does. I just wanted to put my fears aside and run to the best of my ability on that day. With some much needed encouragement from my husband, it's exactly what I did. And that was a 1:55:47.

 ◊  ◊  ◊ 

To read a more traditional recap of my race, go here.

I will probably post later in the week about my decision to continue with my training plan after getting the news. If you have any questions, leave them in the comments or email me at hlthystrides at gmail dot com.

But for those burning questions, here are the answers:

1. I didn't wear the tall Pro Compression socks. The temperature at race start was in the 50s and the day's high in the 80s. I thought it would be too hot so I went with the shorties. I'm glad I did.

2. I wore my hydration pack, which allowed me to have my gels on my chest and skip all but one water station. Just before mile 11, I took the car key out of the zippered pocket, tucking into my sports bra, and tossed the pack to my in-laws who were cheering with Miles. Please note that Miles was picking up dirt and throwing it on the sidewalk.

3. Mark ended up running beside me or just in front of me for most of the race. He started to play hare to my tortoise a bit more when I possibly got a *tad* snarky for him asking about pace more than I cared to answer.