I loved my first job out of college at a swanky Manhattan law firm for a variety of reasons. One factor I’ve recently appreciated is these sentiments were encouraged Pavlovian style. I associated going to work with the reward of an anything one could desire, made-to-order breakfast for a few dollars at the firm’s cafeteria. So when my alarm would go off, visions of turkey bacon and cheddar cheese toasted sandwiches with a side of fresh berries and ground peanut butter danced through my head.
In my third trimester I have a whole new set of associations for my current job. Today when my alarm went off, I envisioned pain and immediately slammed the snooze button. Eight hours of sitting at my desk has been pure torture on my heiny. To be fair, my employer provides me with a cushy, ergonomic chair; it’s just no match for the weight of my basketball-sized uterus on my tailbone for hours on end—the one I’d injured while playing on the monkey bars as a kid.
So I’m already telling my daughter in utero, “Listen to your mother, be careful and don’t try to pull a Shawn Johnson on the playground to impress your cousins; you’ll thank me someday.”
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