My father has asked me on multiple occasions whether or not I’ve started exercising again. “It hasn’t been six weeks yet!” I remind him. Then I mention the old wives tale that some women steer clear of stairs, a luxury that eludes me because I live in a duplex apartment with the bathrooms on the lower level. I’m not even supposed to pick up my toddler, but I do.
At the three week point during my first pregnancy, I was slowly becoming able to walk without leaning on to the stroller for support. this round, I am doing much better perhaps because the delivery was significantly easier and because I don’t have the luxury of indulging my desires as much as I did.
As my husband laments that I need to return to society and do things that make me feel good like exercising, I remind him that like sex, exercise is off limits for six weeks at a *minimum*. I will pat myself on the back for my body returning to a passable form. I’m in my old jeans – not the skinny ones but still. I can see the definition of my obliques from my abs and I’m excited for that to become more defined. Of course looking at my body feels so insignificant, especially when I find an inordinate amount of comfort in a sweet fresh baked cookie.
I may be rambling…but at least I’m posting.