Then, after I returned home, I took advantage of the continued slumbering of my husband and child to read the Bible for several chapters and pray a little. This falls by the wayside way too often when I'm just so wiped from taking care of the boy, or my prayers tend to be really resentful and/or pleading.
And then, with exercising and spending some quiet time with God done, I took further advantage of my rare solitude to try for the 50th time to read Dune, which all of my Carnegie Mellon nerd friends laud with protective zeal. I think my difficulty in getting into the story is the daunting foreignness of the universe presented right off the bat. After I forged through the first three chapters, I'm finally starting to care to read further.
I read until I heard Declan wake up and started crying "Mama, mama" while fiddling with the bedroom doorknob. It's a good thing my dad had left the master bedroom door's key in the lock. Otherwise, Declan would have unknowingly locked himself in the room many a times.
It was such an accomplished two hours that I vowed yesterday to keep to this routine daily, if possible. I even went for another long walk later in the night. Alas, by now, I'm sure you know what happened just one day later: I woke up naturally again at 5:30am. Except I rolled over and slept for one more hour.
D'oh. I got up at 6:30am, caught up on the latest news of my friend's son's birth, (She ended up having a c-section after 17+ hours of natural labor. Mom is recovering while baby is being held and presented to the world by Dad) and ate breakfast while reading one more chapter of Dune.
A part of me seems to have lost all faith in the correlation between working out and staying/getting in shape. Something about being pregnant makes me go really (too) easy on my body. I really miss the days when I would push my body to run at least five miles a day in addition to other activities. Perhaps I am altogether too distrustful of what my body could handle while pregnant.
