I was listening to the “Twenty Miler” playlist on my iPod while waddle jogging on the treadmill the other day. The compilation is an energetic mélange of 49 songs intended to help me through the long runs of marathon training last fall. As I listened to the Foo Fighters, “But Honestly”, I wondered if the baby was tapping along to the beat. Or if he/she could tell that I get a burst of energy when Guster’s “The Captain” comes up. Or if Toph’s son/daughter has any idea how many times he listened to #15, The Dropkick Murphy’s “Shipping Up to Boston” while he trained to qualify for the Boston Marathon. I wonder if Baby listens as intently as I do to the lyrics of “Have You Ever” by Brandy Carlile (“Have you ever wandered lonely through the woods? And everything there feels just as it should. You’re part of the life there. You’re part of something good. If you’ve ever wandered lonely through the woods. Have you ever stared into a starry sky? Lying on your back you’re asking why. What’s the purpose I wonder who am I. If you’ve ever stared into a starry sky.”).

I speculate about what the baby can hear all day every day actually.

Does she/he hear Topher and me laughing with each other? Does Baby know when Nana and Pop or Grammy and Poppy call to check in on how he/she is growing? Or when my girlfriends call with good advice for pregnancy foibles or registry conundrums?

I wonder if Baby can hear Topher’s impressively accurate imitation of the Villanova band horn section basketball game medley.

Can Baby hear his/her cousins, Helen, Michaela and Olivia when they put their faces right up close and talk through my belly button? Did he/she hear when Michaela said she was going to be the babysitter and change all the diapers?

I hope of my internal monologues, the joyful ones full of anticipation are more audible than those riddled with quiet worries.

Can Baby hear us read a book to him/her? Does he/she know when we are saying good morning and good night?

Baby, do you hear what I hear?

Do this. Stand up. Put your feet shoulder-width apart and lift your arms straight out to the side from the shoulders to your fingertips. Imagine that your bra is stuffed with several Ziplock bags of mashed potatoes (men, if you are following along, use an ace bandage to strap two 28-ounce cans of tomatoes—any variety—to your chest). Now, shimmy, which is to say, shake your shoulders back and forth, sending a ripple down your arms to your fists. Simultaneously, shuffle sideways across the floor, while still facing forward, leading with one leg and pulling the other toward the leading leg. Make sure you’re listening to 80s music set to an aggressive aerobic beat. To get the full effect, your bladder should be very full and you should be wearing a WWF championship-wrestling belt tightly around your waist, right on top of your full bladder. There. Now you can sort of see where I’m coming from.

My exercise of choice is running, but after a stress-fractured ankle sidelined me, I took a long break and sought alternative fitness outlets. I started taking a strength/aerobic class three times a week, during which the instructor sufficiently kicks my ass and then hands it to me to take home at the end. It is excellent, exhilarating and exhausting.

The class consists of non-stop motion for either 60 or 90 minutes, half aerobic, half strength training and it is always completely packed with loyal students. My general countenance throughout the session is focused, serious and desperate to not fall off the step blocks or roll off the Bosu ball in some spastic way, causing a scene amidst my coordinated fellows.

One woman in the class sports a full on aerobic outfit a la 1987, sweatband included, and spontaneously interjects a “Whoot! Whoot!” along with the beat of any given song. Another woman obviously wanted to be a backup dancer for a pop star, but has settled for life among the laymen. She seems to use this class as an outlet, because when she does the shimmy (described above), she really puts her soul (and her neck and head) into it and I catch her smiling at herself in the mirror (the same mirror I avoid looking at too much).

I have been determined to stay active and relatively fit through this pregnancy so that I don’t feel like I have to learn to walk again after the baby arrives. This was pretty easy to commit to during the first trimester and halfway through the second, with the exception of the days when I felt like I could sleep for 20 of the 24 hours allotted. But things progressed: bladder security was compromised; my boobs became enormous, sore and unruly; my lungs feel as if they’ve been pushed up toward my shoulders and I’ve become a loud breather; I can’t lie down on my back because the growing baby might smush my major arteries; and most horrifying—women who are or have been pregnant, back me up on this—there is serious risk of involuntary audible gas expulsion at any moment, particularly when doing jumping jacks or squats. I started to feel like a liability to myself in the class, so I’ve put in on hold until the spring, and have returned to running, walking and careful weight training on my own.

Exercising while pregnant has helped me feel energized, clear-headed and healthy and I’m grateful to have been able to keep it up for so long, even if I look ridiculous and feel like I’m wearing several sacks of potatoes on my chest, hips and waist.