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Triathlete Blog

Now Approaching: Week 33

By June 29, 2014July 21st, 2015No Comments

Week 33.

I can’t believe I just said that.

The weeks are flying by now.  And every week that passes, Chris tells me that I look more and more pregnant.  I cracked 140 lbs at the doctor’s office, an impressive milestone for myself.  I finished with Max at 145 and it looks like I will fly by that with no problem.  There’s a good chance I’ll crack 150.  If I end up over 160, I will officially be the heaviest mammal in our house.  As crazy as that sounds, I might be up for the challenge.  I feel like I really, really need to win something.

As I enter the final 2 months of pregnancy, I realize that I am so close but still so far away.  I am not nearly grumpy, swollen or tired enough to declare myself anywhere near giving birth.  Shocking, to those close to me, but trust me, folks, we’ve got a loooooong way to go.  Until then, we’ve still got a lot to do. Diapers, pacifiers and someone’s gonna need to pull my breast pump out of storage.  Don’t all jump on that opportunity.  What I have done, though, is finally settled on some baby bedding (purple!) and bought some of the most adorable outfits (with bicycles on them!).  The furniture should arrive in the next 2 weeks and then I will feel like it’s all coming together.

Lately, I’ve had that third trimester crazy rush of nesting energy that reminds me the end actually is near.  Soon enough I will be cleaning out grout with a toothbrush because how can we let a new baby into this house with such squalor!  Though all it takes is about 30 minutes outside when temperatures are over 75 to completely slow this baby train down.  I forgot how truly hot it feels when you are pregnant in summer.  It is beyond hot.  It is like suffocating in your own body heat.  I don’t sweat, I just stifle.

I continue to work out every day and most of the time it feels good.  I’m starting to slow down on the swim.  I moved myself down a lane (sniff, sniff).  This means a lot of time standing on the wall negotiating about changing the set or who gets to be last.  I get to be last, ok?  I GET TO BE LAST DAMMIT.  The water always feels too hot and I’m nearly at the point where I need to wear something under my suit because my belly is pushing the entire suit down.

I’m still riding my cross bike on the path and the other day had the pleasure of being buzzed by a woman not only in aero bars on the path but wearing compression sleeves on her calves, an iPod and no helmet.  There’s a first for everything.

Running.  Last week I had a glorious run where I went really fast – for me, right now.  This week, with the heat, every run has felt like mile 18+ of the Ironman.  I’m just thrilled to be running still.  I did start to read about returning to running after birth.  Since I will be attempting a normal birth, I do not have a road map for how my body will respond after that experience.  It took only a few sentences about damage to the pelvic floor to realize I might spend the rest of my life in diapers.

Speaking of diapers, he might be turning 4 in a few weeks but Max is finally potty trained.  This was definitely a “hot button” of parenting for a long time.  Everyone will give you advice, opinions and tips on how to raise your kid.  Often it will include things that make you feel like a terrible parent.  Even Max’s preschool had me convinced that I had the only 3 year old left who was in diapers and would need to spend the entire summer with him naked to learn to use the potty.

Speaking of opinions and advice: Remember the doctor who had me get my child evaluated by the state because at age 2 he wasn’t talking in full sentences and then the state declared in 29% language delayed, a mere 1% away from needing a therapeutic intervention?  I’d like to lock that doctor and those evaluators in a room with my kid for just one hour these days.  He doesn’t stop talking – EVER.

Never ignore your parental intuition.  Inside I knew that Max would go potty on his terms when he was ready.  You see, he’s my kid.  I know how he thinks because though he is a little Chris by body, his mind and personality is all me.  I said one day we’ll hear the flush of the toilet and we’ll see Max walk out of the bathroom with the NY Times in his hand.  The more everyone pressed him about using the potty, the more he resisted.  I just dropped the subject after a while and figured he’d go on his time when he was ready.

Wouldn’t you know that’s how it happened.  After a 6 month unsuccessful campaign to get him or even his teddy bear to wear Thomas the Train undies, we realized we had it all wrong.  He wanted Power Ranger underwear.  And when they arrived, he put them on and never looked back.  A week later, no accidents, no issues, no fights, he was not just using the potty but boasting that he could use the urinal.  Finally no more diapers!  Unfortunately the time I gained from not having to change diapers is now more time I spend in the bathroom – there was an hour the other day where I was in the bathroom 5 times; twice for myself and three times for Max.  Any stay at home mom probably understands my plea when I say all I want to do is get out of this house but right now I would just settle for an hour without being in one of our bathrooms.

In other household news, my husband had what I would call the worst week ever.  In the short span of a week he pulled two surprises on me.  A surprise at this point would be the baby arriving early or a new bike delivered to my door step as an early “push” present.  By the way, someone told him he does have to get me a push present, right?  Thanks.  Anyways, he came home one day and said: 

Surprise, I signed up for Ironman Wisconsin.

As in, the Ironman in Wisconsin THIS year, approximately 10 weeks away.

Yes, it seems that he forgot to tell me. 


Initially I wasn’t angry but underneath was bubbling a hormonally charged rage of volcanic proportions.  Delayed onset anger, if you will.  I’m fairly sure that progesterone was literally steaming out of my ears.  It’s not that I don’t want him to do Ironman.  It’s just that I’ve gotten a taste of the “triathlon widow syndrome” and it’s worn on me.  While he’s out spending 4+ hours on his bike, canoodling along Ashley Road looking at the waving green corn against perfectly blue skies, I’m inside – working, waiting out Max’s nap.  All of a sudden, the pent up anger, boredom, frustration of being trapped in a house all winter, trapped in this body, trapped in the day in day out pattern of breakfast/bath/nap (for child, NOT me) caught up to me and I’m lucky the baby did not shoot right out of my mouth.

After a few days, we came to an agreement, of sorts, that he could do Ironman in exchange for me doing whatever the damn well I wanted next year.  True, it’s in the contract: whatever Liz damn well wants.  Which will be determined once I get this baby out of me.

But wait – my husband topped that surprise.  He had another one up his sleeve.

One night, I came home from coaching masters.  What this means: I left Chris and Max, alone in the house, for 90 minutes.  What could possibly go wrong in 90 minutes?

I opened the door and noticed that the handle was covered in white paint.

Suspicious but not alarming.

Walked into the house and heard Chris, from upstairs, shouting: DO NOT COME UP HERE.


No sooner did Max appear in front of me, in his Power Ranger underwear, covered in – you guessed it – white paint.


(the nonverbal, needs a speech intervention child, everyone)


For about 10 minutes, I held out, knowing I needed to emotionally prepare myself for what I would find upstairs.  Finally the suspense got to me – I had to find out.  I went upstairs.

Let’s just say should you spill an entire gallon of white paint on to wood floor, furniture and bedding you should probably just lay down and play dead when your wife gets home.  Especially if she is very pregnant.  Extra especially if you told her, just a few days earlier, that you were doing – SURPRISE! – an Ironman.

The next 3 hours, we spent scrubbing, scraping and cleaning paint off of everything.  The bathroom had been used as a triage unit and so it was filled with paint.  As was the hallway leading to the bathroom.  And half of the guest bedroom.

At one point, sweaty, my belly covered in white paint, scraping flecks of paint off of our formerly perfect wood floors, Chris across from me doing the same, we both looked up and our eyes met. 

If I see you with a paintbrush in your hand ever again, I will shove that paintbrush so far up your ass it will come out of your mouth.

This came from what I will call the bowels of 31 weeks of pregnancy.  Sometimes, it just ain’t pretty.  And though he could have followed that up with anything, he said: 

I love you.

Finally, the right answer.

I’d tell you how a week later he missed his flight to a race in Minneapolis and instead drove the 450 miles to get up there.  Or, how in another race he missed his swim wave.  But all you need to do is pity my dear husband who is clearly suffering from the worst case of sympathy pregnancy brain fog ever.  

I forgot to tell you I’m doing an Ironman.

About that push present…

Only 8 more weeks.  I think he’ll make it.