My weekly pregnancy update email contained exercise safety tips today. Amongst a list of obvious others, the following movements were banned: "deep-knee bends, jumping, bouncing, or herky-jerky dancing."
I have watched every single season of So You Think You Can Dance, and have never ever seen anyone choreograph a herky-jerky. I took dance classes for years, but never studied the herky-jerky style. What in the world is herky-jerky dancing?
herky–jerky (hûrkē-jûrkē) adj: Spasmodic, not smooth or graceful: marked by sudden movements or changes.
First of all, I may have moments when I lumber like a newborn giraffe while simply walking from point A to point B, but I'm quite graceful and not at all spasmodic when dancing, thankyouverymuch.
Second of all, are you serious, What to Expect When You're Expecting email update? Do you know what we breeder types tend to do after we've had a baby? Keep breeding! That means that there's a high degree of likelihood that when we're pregnant, it's not our first time at the rodeo. We probably have small children at home. Small bendy, jumpy, bouncy, dancing children at home.
Now, the last thing I want to do is to put my baby in any kind of risk. I am a strict pregnancy ban rule follower: no soft cheeses, no seafood, no alcohol or caffeine. No roller coasters, no hot tubs, no contact sports. No sky diving, no marathon running, no bungee jumping.
But no regular jumping, either? Really? And how do you expect anyone with an almost-three-year-old to get through the day without bending down to pick something up at least fifteen times? Should I, for the next couple of months, ignore the "bend with your knees, not with your back" rule, so as not to break the "no deep-knee bends" pregnancy rule?
This particular "helpful" pregnancy email was absolutely not helpful. Send me advice that bans cleaning bathrooms, or orders me to adopt an all frozen yogurt diet, or something that I can get behind. Because this little nugget of wisdom officially puts me in my first awkward position as the parent of two children, and forces me to choose who is more important: the adorable little firstborn who wants me to pretend to be Tigger and bounce around the house with him, or the unborn child who I haven't met yet, but already love. Old blood vs. New blood. Risk vs. Reward. Ethan vs. (insert yet-to-be-named baby's name here).
Not cool, Heidi Murkoff. Not cool.