Pamper Your Pregnant Self

By Amy Buringrud
Web Exclusive

I'm just about to cross over into the third trimester of my first pregnancy, and I'm not sure where the first two went. Juggling the demands of a home-based business, an active social calendar, volunteer obligations, and nearly every childbirth class under the sun, has left me in a tailspin without much time to really appreciate my changing body and the last few months before handing my independence over to a brand new soul.

A wonderfully hedonistic friend offered the perfect solution to slow down the clock just enough to ensure at least one opportunity to revel in this fleeting frame that supports both me and the baby for a short nine months - a day of body worship.

Although I'm all for expensive spas and the very best the world of cuisine has to offer, I'm rarely flush with cash, so I improvised by asking friends if they would be willing to assist in my day of hedonism, and everyone enthusiastically agreed. They saw it as an opportunity to show their love and support of this transition in my life. Some offered gifts: bath oil, particularly delightful body lotion, a favorite maternity dress that magically transforms the wearer into a body-worshiping goddess. Others offered to clean a portion of my house ahead of time so that my day would start and end without a single thought about laundry, eddies of dog hair around the heating registers, dishes, or bathtub grime (not very conducive to a relaxing bath!). A couple of friends offered to bring me food (rule #1 of purely hedonistic days: you need to have lots of delicious, healthy food at your fingertips, but you should try not to cook any of it yourself), so I was stocked up with fruits, granola, yogurt, breakfast pastries, a lunch stew, fresh bread, vegetable lasagna, and a few normally forbidden delights like tiramisu gelato. And, although I had planned to spend this sacred time solo to allow for a day without a schedule, I couldn't pass up two offers that needed to be set by the clock: the first was an hour and a half body massage offered by a very dear friend who is a professional massage therapist, and the other was an opportunity for guided visualization in which I planned to choreograph my perfect labor and birth scenario to visit again and again in the coming months.

Without an alarm, I am still in bed at 9:30. A delicious dream hovers in the haze around my bed, so before I even put my feet to the floor, I sketch a few doodles in a dream journal, while drawing the details of the dream back to me. Once I am more or less fully awake, I wrap a favorite handmade sweater around myself and gently stretch out the kinks of a pregnant body. After breakfast, a freshly baked ginger cream scone, fruit and whole milk yogurt (with cream on top), and fresh squeezed orange juice, I get ready for a long walk in the wooded park near my house. I had planned to take music with me, but opt instead for a time to take in the clear blue sky, ponder the purpose of pain in labor, and allow for spontaneous conversations with other weekday walkers.

On the trail, my belly poking out between my most comfortable pregnancy pants and a slightly too-short top, I revel in the smell of pine on such a beautiful morning as other walkers pass me with sweet, encouraging smiles at seeing a pregnant belly exposed to sun and fall air. Lulled to sleep by my sway through the park, the baby gives the sides of my uterus, my bladder, and the ring of my pelvis a break from its tiny fists and feet. I dawdle through our list of potential names to see if any one resonates more than the others this morning, but none do. I settle on naming the baby either Isabella Sophia Fiona Elisabeth Emma Wagner or Elliot Ian Eli Oliver Richard Wagner. On a day like this, it seems reasonable.

Back at home, I take my time in the shower laden with gifted sweet smelling soaps, shampoos, and body lotions. Clean and smelling very slightly of milk and honey, I put on the silky, red (and borrowed) maternity dress that wouldn't think of constricting any of my new curves and yet still manages to make me feel fabulous, slinky and gorgeous.

Adequately decked out, I stroll into the Barefoot Sage for the one act of hedonism that hasn't been donated today: a foot massage. I am met in the cushion-rich, tapestry draped, and lightly perfumed lobby by a lovely woman who promises to transform not just my feet, but my whole body. I start with hot stone therapy in which heated, smooth black stones warm and relax the muscles in my feet. When the massage begins I think my feet are already relaxed from the warm stones, but as the therapy progresses and my toes, arches, ankles, and calves become slack and heavy, I begin to truly understand the meaning of relaxation. Pressure on different points of my feet allows even my neck, back and shoulders to release tension, and I feel like crying when I'm told that my thirty minutes are up.

Preparing for guided visualization is really easy after nearly an hour at a spa. My friend has pulled out large floor pillows dressed in silks, which she uses to prop me up in a comfortable seated position. Daylight is diffused by airy curtains and gives the room a slightly pink glow. A rhythmic chanting set to music plays very quietly in the background, setting the mood for visualizing a peaceful, (relatively) painless, and perfect birth. We had discussed my ideal birth before getting started, so using the cues I had provided, we wind through the scenario beginning with the first contraction and ending with the baby in my arms. The images come more easily than I expect and I am happily surprised to find a well of courage and strength easily accessible within. I leave with hugs and kisses and a renewed belief that this body is the perfect vehicle for giving birth.