Tuesday, July 6, 2010


I did it.  I went up to a total stranger and asked her about her pram.  My mother always says it’s easier to do things for your children than it is for yourself and she’s right.  I was upfront; “excuse me, I’m so sorry to stop you but I’m five months pregnant and wanted to ask about your pram.”  That way they don’t think they’re being stopped by a sweaty, puffing weirdo (I had just attempted my first run in over a week) but rather a sweaty, puffing mother-to-be, which puts you in a different category entirely.
She was very helpful and kind and I dashed home to write down her words of wisdom.  This after yesterday, where I rang Gregory to inform him I had diagnosed myself with peanut induced mild depression.  I had spent the day moping about, doing unsatisfying work (actually it really wasn’t too bad, I was just in a bad head space) blowing my nose, (my snot supply is slowly drying up) nursing yet another hormone headache and lugging our wet laundry up the road as it was – yet again – raining in fair Sydney, a characteristic I do not recall from eight years ago. 
“I think I’ve got a bit of depression,” I say to him, like I caught it like I did my cold.
“Or maybe you’re just hormotional,” he replies, having coined the word (a combination of hormonal and emotional) late the other night.  “You are growing a human after all.”
I felt much better after that and even managed a walk in the dark.  But when today dawned dark and gloomy again, I began to doubt Gregory’s prognosis and believe more strongly in my own.  And then, a few hours later, the sun struggled to burst through the clouds, and just like a dog that’s been locked inside, I scurried my five-month pregnant self out the front door and set out on a prego lady run.  (Prego lady runs mean you spend the entire 7 k’s reminding yourself of what you learned in pelvic floor class – you don’t really need to wee, it’s just the extra pressure on your bladder making your brain believe that, and stopping when you are puffed because they scare you into thinking that if you don’t you could oxygen deprive your baby).  
 Regardless, I felt better.  Much better.  There is nothing like a run and then a good, long, non-drought approved length shower and a wash of the hair to lift your spirits.  Trust me, it’s been working for me for years.  So perhaps it’s not peanut-depression after all.  It’s meteorological depression instead.  Bring on the spring.

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