I have exactly two weeks from today til our little bundle of joy is due. I’m over it.
My back hurts.
My ribs hurt.
I’m covered in ugly stretch marks.
I have gained so much weight, I could audition for the part of Jabba the Hut, if they were in the process of remaking it… again.
I can’t roll over in bed.
I can’t get off the couch by myself.
I am incredibly moody. And by moody, I mean ready to throw chairs at people.
I am sick of people asking me “are you still here?!?!?!” at work. (No, this is a hologram. I’m actually in the hospital in labor RIGHT NOW.) Or some variation, like “are your bosses making you work up til you go into labor?” No, of course not. I chose to do it this way.
I might punch our cleaning lady if I’m forced to interact with her and answer her stupid questions next week.
My legs, feet, hands, and face are so swollen, see the Jabba the Hut comment above.
The very best part? There is NO KNOWING when this kid is coming. And because I’m a first-time mom, I must be ignorant about the fact that most first babies are late. That sex is supposed to help induce labor. So are walking, pineapple, red raspberry leaf tea, castor oil, bouncing on a yoga ball, etc. People, I am NOT a magical pregnancy glitter-pooping unicorn. Trust me, I have LOOKED THIS STUFF UP. REPEATEDLY. Now that the baby’s lungs are fully developed, the brain is fully-functioning, and the sucking reflex is practiced, this kid is basically living inside me rent-free. But no matter what eviction methods I try, nothing will work “if the baby isn’t ready.” (I swear to Cthulhu, the next person who tells me that the baby will come on her own time will get arsenic in their food. Like I haven’t read the books, the websites, the articles, etc. or been to a single doctor’s appointment.)
BUT there is something: this pregnancy can’t last forever. The doctors won’t let it. I will be able to suffer an all new type of sleep deprivation in just a matter of a few weeks, tops. I’ll have an adorable, squalling poop machine and a fabulous husband to help me out. I’ll have 4 weeks straight off work, two weeks part time, and then back to reality. I’ll have family there, too, if I need them. I’ve had the best non-pushy offers from my mother to stay or not, depending on what my particular needs are. Apart from bonding with the newborn and my husband, I’d like to spend those weeks maybe trying to get some writing done. Maybe getting back into photography. Maybe reading some novels. I want to sing lullabyes to my baby, take naps, and not get out of my sweats for any reason other than dropping into the office to introduce my baby to my bosses and doing some quick analysis of how much my life will suck when I come back to work. (I can’t let my bosses see my after-work uniform. :P)
I keep telling myself that this is all worth it. I want this little girl so badly and I want her to be happy and healthy. I’m so excited to bring her home with us, to hold her, to cuddle her, to hear her, to see the color of her eyes and hair and her little body in general. I’m excited that, however little sleep I’ll be getting, I can at least do it on my back. I’m excited that I’ll be losing weight and that my stretch marks will begin to fade. I’m excited to not wear maternity clothes anymore, however long that may take. I’m excited to be a mother.