Why I had a meltdown after a relaxing massage...

While we were in NY this past week, Frank made a point to make sure I got myself a prenatal massage, and I certainly had no objections. Especially because after the first day of walking the city, I was in agony. I was fighting back tears by our last subway ride at about 5pm that day from sciatic pain.

I could barely walk--I had pain shooting down my butt almost to my ankles in searing throbs. Seeing the misery I was in, Frank was more than happy to call us cabs for the rest of our stay, which luckily wasn't more costly than it was worth since we were right in the middle of Manhattan.

So we took a cab the next morning to the Red Door Spa (so fancy!), and I was looking forward to getting a good rub-down. This was my first prenatal massage, and certainly the fanciest ambiance I've had for any massage--changing room, fluffy robe, relaxation library, sun deck, water with lemon, showers with hot towels, the whole bit.

My therapist was lovely, and we chatted comfortably through the first 25 minutes of the massage between groans of pain and/or relief. The major difference between prenatal and regular massage is you lie on your side to get your back worked on, and they make sure to prop you up while you're on your back, so you're not totally flat. This place actually had a table split into three sections that angled up and down with a lever, which allowed me to have my knees slightly bent as well.

Added note: You're supposed to wait until your second trimester to have any kind of massage, and you want to make sure to have someone work on you who actually has training in prenatal massage therapy, not just some jock who can rub your back while you lay on your side (husbands are an exception--they can learn). There are pressure points and certain things that need to be avoided, as I've read that certain points on your ankles and feet especially can actually trigger contractions--sounds super strange, but it's worth avoiding.

So why did I have a 40-minute meltdown on the sundeck (in the chair on the far end) in my fuzzy robe after my relaxing respite?

A) I was still in some pain, and B) I realized that my inability to find a balance between moving and resting had gotten me there.

I had a really hard time finding a happy medium on this trip where I wasn't squandering vacation time or running myself into a painful situation, and I tended to lean toward the pain-inducing side. I grew up playing sports, and played Division I softball all through college. That involves getting injured, being tired, and playing through it. However, I realize now that a sprained ankle or strained patellar tendon is a lot different than an occupied uterus. They certainly involve less hormones.

The big problem is that this whole pregnancy thing is a giant, nine-month slide rule of pain, fatigue and malaise, and not knowing where exactly the ebb and flow is headed from day to day is to my extreme detriment. Frank is more in-tune to when I need to rest than I am at this point, because I'm not used to letting myself do it.

Maybe I was single for too long...we have to be independent--make money, do the "to-do's", keep calm and carry on, take care of business. It's a big mind-shift to have someone providing and caring for you, and it's difficult to relent your treasured neurosis of wiping the bathroom floor to the hair and fuzz that are now overrunning what once was your morning oasis.

I've also realized that when I suffer, Frank suffers, partly because he has to listen to me whine and then try to fix it, but also because he cares about me, and absolutely hates seeing me upset and miserable. So, for his sake too, I need to remember to sit. To eat. To sleep. To take a bath. To do nothing. To take care of myself. The times they are-a-changin'.

And oh so soon, they'll change again--from what I understand, I'll have plenty of opportunities to take care of added responsibility in a few months, so in the meantime, maybe I'll just buy a hammock or something.

Except a hammock would murder my lower lumbar...maybe a jazzy scooter instead.