I have but one pregnancy rule that stands fast, to which I make no exceptions save those caused by serious injury.
I will not take the elevator.
Okay, I might taken elevator if the person I’m with needs to, or if I have a stroller, etc., but when stairs are an option I always, ALWAYS, take the stairs. Think I developed this attitude in response to former coworkers during my last pregnancy, who seemed to think I was paraplegic, rather than pregnant. Back then, I probably made this rule out of spite.
I might still follow it out of spite. I mean, also for my health, I tend to always take stairs anyhow because it’s little things like that that add a little more activity to the day and keeps my muscles strong. It also encourages optimal positioning for baby, not a big deal yet, but hey, might as well start concerning myself with it now.
Taking the elevator was something I never succumbed to in my last pregnancy (except for when I was with coworkers who, even though they were not pregnant, never took stairs), and damnit, I’m not going to this pregnancy either. But phew! I’m sure taking the stairs more slowly than usual.
Looking back, there were not nearly as many stairs in my life when I was pregnant with Elijah as there are now. Sure, I worked on the second floor in a two story office building then, and I lived in a second floor apartment, so stairs were a daily obstacle for me. But that was about it.
This time I’m a full time student, and boy, are there ever stairs on my campus! I take classes 4 days a week, and all but one of my classes are on second floors of buildings. I take yoga twice a week Wichita is a climb up six flights of stairs. And when I drive to campus (which has been almost ever day this semester, since it’s been too cold for bike riding) I always park on the third level of the parking garage.
Then I live in a split level house on top of it all, with our family room on a different floor than our kitchen, our kitchen on a different floor than our bedrooms, and a flight of stairs between my room and Elijah’s. That’s not counting our basement, which is a floor below our family room (two floors beneath my kitchen, three below the master bedroom, and four beneath Elijah’s room). This makes my house sound huge. Not so! The designers just obviously really loved stairs.
None of this irked me much pre pregnancy, but now my increased blood volume makes me out of breath very easily, and my increased weight makes it harder to lift myself on each step. And it’s only getting worse from here!
All the more reason not to give up, I reason. If I pussy out on stairs now, not even half way through my pregnancy, what state of weakness will I be in at 40 week? Will I be strong enough to keep up with Elijah? Will I be strong enough to endure another two days of early labor followed by 12 hours of active? Will I be strong enough to hoist my swollen, exhausted self out of bed in the morning? I shudder to think.
So I tackle all these stairs, somewhat slowly, somewhat grudgingly, every day. Every single day. Up and down, up and down. My pride will not allow me to stop.
Guess my baby stats!
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