My Feet, Part II

I had my nurturing motherhood massage (birthday gift from best husband ever, or BHE). As promised, they rubbed my feet! And my hands. And my back. And, strangely, my belly.

When I first climbed aboard the table, I had anxiety that the massage therapist was going to massage my belly. Baby Love is, after all, huge and feisty, and I couldn't envision a way it would feel nice to have him pressed in toward my squished guts. But I ended up liking that part of the massage as much as the rest of it. The whole thing just felt good. (Although my therapist initially handed me a tiny little pillow case for modesty when my chest was bare for the belly rub...I just told her we'd need something a little larger for the G-cup pumpkins I'm sporting).

The foot rubbing was actually not my favorite part of the massage. Though it was wonderful. No miscarriages happened. Just some deep kneading of the tissues and contented sighs from me. She rubbed my ankles, dug her thumbs between the bones of my toes...it was wonderful.

But nothing can compare to the way she worked out my hips! I've been limping around like my grandma (after 2 hip replacement surgeries) for a month and having stabbing pains each time I move from supine to erect posture. The therapist told me she could feel the separation of my pelvis and sacrum, whatever that means, and empathized. "No wonder you have pain."

I guess I'm just making space for Baby Love to come sliding out of my childbearing, German hips, as my neighbors are quick to tell me I have. At any rate, when I left the massage, I could walk like a normal person. Now, some have said I don't walk that gracefully as a rule. I had one roommate in college who told me I scuttle, like a crab. But whatever it is that I do, I'm right back at it after the most amazing massage ever.

I now know I need to convince BHE to buy tennis balls and massage my hips instead of wasting my energy begging for foot rubs.