Even Though We Ain't Got Money ...

…. Big Mama is going to get a massage because her freakin’ back hurts like a bitch.
That’s how my song goes.

Now, I consider (or considered) myself a fairly athletic person. I had aches and pains from various things. Swimming four hours a day, doing multiple push ups and dips to prove that I am a strong girl, sprinting the Shamrock Run for no apparent reason, even running a marathon – all of these things have made my muscles sore, and yet I seem to get over them. However, lately, I have been having the most intense back pain ever. It wakes me in the middle of the night. It causes me to make Jake rub my back in a movie theater. It causes me to sit in odd positions in the car.

So, today, I could not take it anymore and I made the executive decision to get a massage. Normally, my paranoid pregnant self would worry about if this place was okay and if they really knew how to do a “prenatal massage.” But, the pain was so bad; I would have been okay if they would have injected me with morphine while feeding me tuna and coffee simultaneously.

Lucky for me, there was no morphine involved and the lady was very conscious about me being pregnant and opting to not even use sage because apparently you should not use sage oils while pregnant. I explained to her where my pain was, and I think she sensed the desperation in my eyes. As she was working on the right side of my back, shoulder and ribs she asked me if I had fallen recently. UH, NO.

It then made me realize that my “fall” was probably my interview last Thursday. Or the week before that, or the week before that, or the week before that. All of my “falls” pretty much equaled falling off of a cliff. My stress was causing me as much pain as if I had fallen. There is something wrong with this picture.

This is God’s way of either telling me that I need to CHILL OUT, or that my body is not fit to be carrying a child (which I sort of think is true, I am seriously running out of space, and I still have 15 weeks left). I am going to opt for the chill out option, because there is nothing I can do about the whole body thing. I am not sure what chilling out will entail, but I imagine that it doesn’t involve hyper-ventilating and hypothesizing what my life would be like “if I did this” or “I got that” or “if I didn’t do that.” I know it may be late in the game to be thinking this way, and I still do think that I am giving up a little, but Big Mama can’t take this back pain. This baby is only going to get bigger, and probably stronger. Especially if he gets my calves. Let’s not even talk about what getting this thing out will be like.