The insane temperatures of last weekend prompted us to get serious about finding a pool here in Roseville in which we can spend the next 11 weeks of my pregnancy. There are several public pools around, but they’re only open for a couple of hours each afternoon; so Monday we called the local “raquet club” and went for a tour. We are now members, free to use either of their two enormous outdoor pools until 10:30pm every night, and the nonpregnant half of can get back to elliptical running and weight lifting. (The pregnant half of us could, I suppose, run too, but yoga and swimming are more my speed.) Swimming in the hot evenings—bliss.
We went swimming yesterday, and it truly was wonderful. At 7:30pm it wasn’t very crowded—just a few kids splashing around, and a couple of swimming lessons going on. The smell of chlorine, and the sight of swimming lessons, always throws me back to my own years of swimming lessons—summers full of them, usually followed, in the afternoons, by more swimming. It was lovely to do some nice easy laps, weightless.
When I stepped out of the pool, however, I wasn’t weightless—I felt heavy. Really heavy. I hadn’t experienced the real weight of the pregnancy in a visceral way before that moment of stepping from water to land, but there it was—it felt like an effort to walk. I haven’t gained an ungodly amount of weight yet, but it’s a significant portion of my original weight, and I felt it as I waddled to a lounge chair in my cute maternity swimsuit.
The baby was kicking a lot as I sat and dried off. I think she was relishing the feeling of being cool, so very, very cool.