Hurray! I found a nice gym with a nice crèche. So nice in fact, that I’d rather spent my hours sitting in the crèche than on the gym floor, but I guess I have to grow up here. I will have my fitness assessment (uh-oh…) tomorrow, and for the first time in her short life, little L will be looked after by strangers for a total of 60 minutes. If mummy doesn’t burst into tears and rescues her before the time is up, that is.
What? It’s Wednesday again? Where has the week gone? I blame my virtual absence on the great weather and the fact that I got more confident in taking little L out. We had a blast attending coffee mornings, picnics and going for walks. Almost bursting with pride, I paraded my beautiful social butterfly in her pram, dressed to the nines in Petit Bateau (little L, not me), making the most of the sunny days. Well, almost.
Little L was six weeks yesterday, and so is my scar. I went to see my GP on Monday, and here is the verdict: Everything hunky dory, I can get pregnant again. Hooorray! Only kidding.
Six weeks of sitting on the sofa, stuffing my face with chocolates and ice cream – all with the excuse of having had a caesarean – have come to an end. In fact, I couldn’t move much right after surgery. But even though I could have been more mobile recently, I just haven’t upped my speed or the amount of moving around at all.