Yesterday I was stretching, and I noticed that my right arm was a little sore. I was trying to think what I could have done to make it feel like I had been working out my triceps, but I couldn't remember anything. Was there a vigorous round of Wii tennis I was forgetting? Had I gone to the gym? I asked Alex if he could think of anything strenuous I had done, and it took him ten minutes to stop laughing long enough to point out that I was so immobile that he had to put my socks on for me the day before, so no, he couldn't think of anything "strenuous" I had done. Unless you count drooling onto the couch while I was napping.
Then I remembered: the heavy weight I had been lifting was me. I am now so bulbous and unwieldy that every time I get out of bed, I have to carefully roll myself onto my side at the edge of the bed , swing my legs down, and then use my arms to push myself up into a sitting position. Ditto getting up off of the couch. It's also important to groan and grunt and hurk and uuunggh! as much as possible, or else Alex might not realize that 1: I'm pregnant, 2: I'm uncomfortable, and 3: therefore he should cater to my every whim... which mostly involve delicious, delicious Fudgesicles. Hey, hoisting myself off of the couch burns a lot of calories, you know.
(Also: we found the camera! I promise a belly picture in the next couple of days.)
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Don't worry, this workout strain will soon be traded in for lugging around your increasingly hefty child. Which, before long, will feel like carrying one of those jumbo bags of rice from the Asian store with you everywhere you go. And then the bag of rice will beg you to hold it under your arm like a football and run around pretending to be an airplane until your arm feels like limp spaghetti and then for the next 3 days your biceps will hurt when you try to lift your fudgesicle.
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