Me last weekend. 155lbs. This picture is so ridiculous I just had to share it.
How I’m Doing, Really
Honestly? Pretty shitty.
Even though pregnancy takes an average of 40 weeks, Lima Bean is considered “full term” at 37 weeks today. That basically means all the important things have been developed already and now he/she just fattens up and grows hair. Lima is probably around six pounds and about the size of a watermelon. Awesome, right? Most definitely.
And this is the point in this blog that I need to provide a disclaimer. I’m going to complain a little. And I’m going to do so with the full knowledge that I have an amazing life and I’m lucky and fortunate and blessed and all that good stuff. So why do it? Because sometimes you just feel crappy even when you know logically you have no right to. Sometimes you’re pregnant and over it. And finally, because it’s my own damn blog and I can complain if I want to, and if you don’t want to read it, there’s other stuff on the internet. Click here to watch a baby panda sneeze instead.
So what’s my problem? Probably that I haven’t written about it. I always feel better when I write about things. Here I am doing this thing that’s supposed to be miraculous and beautiful and while it felt that way just a week ago, now I just feel gargantuan and emotionally unstable. People are out running on the trails in the Bend sunshine, and I hardly have the energy to leave the house. My twitter feed is full of results from amazing races and I’m just sitting here in a chair with my knees spread wide enough for my girth to rest between, itching to be out there again. Damn you Flotrack, damn you.
I don’t know what kind of crazy brain chemistry happens in the last few weeks of pregnancy, but things that were funny a couple weeks ago are infuriating now, such as:
- The fact that the baby only kicks me within a 2 inch radius under my right rib. Wouldn’t kill ya to mix it up a little before giving me osteoarthritis.
- Hiccups which used to be cute are now as agitating as when I get them myself.
- The farting. I mean seriously?!
- My gonzo breasts were awesomely sexy until my stomach became comedically huge, and now I wouldn’t even have sex with me, much less want anyone else to.
- Having to take my wedding ring off to accommodate swollen fingers was humorous until I realized I have an unbreakable habit of trying to spin its ghost.
- Anything that requires bending over, like putting on pants, or tying my shoes.
- Every random stranger telling me a birth horror story. “Oh you’re about to have a baby…let me tell you this awful thing that happened to my sister.” What is wrong with people?
At first, these annoying moments would come and go, and I could keep a healthy perspective by saying, “Ha! How weird to feel these things! Well, this is pregnancy for ya! What a unifying experience with women around the world! What a cool change from what my life is normally like!” And now I’m like, “Fuck this. I’m tired of my body being a vessel for someone else 24/7. I want my body back for my own kick ass purposes, thank you very much.”
It’s hard to talk about these things because when you are a woman, there is all this pressure to be nothing short of amazed by the beauty of the gift of life that you are about to give. And yeah, I read on Baby Center and other mommy blogs that these feelings are normal at this point in the pregnancy, but it doesn’t mean you don’t feel like a UPS* for having them yourself. I want to feel grateful and excited all the time, but shit, what are you gonna do? You feel what you feel. Should I feel bad for feeling bad? No, running taught me that much; you can’t become your best unless you honor what you feel and keep it real.
All that’s missing from the Mountain Buggy is the baby. Come on baby!!
So that’s where I’m at. Three-ish weeks to go with fewer and fewer moments of feeling like my normal self. One thing is for sure, I might be totally over pregnancy, but I am super excited to meet this little fart bundle. I know I will love every square inch of Lima Bean. I already do, which is weird. I am under no delusion that I’ll be anything more than a boob-slave poop-cleaner for a few months before it develops a personality, but the thought of it having it’s own space to occupy outside my body makes me want to jump for joy. This baby deserves to have it’s own life as a liberated human. Break free of the cage Lima Bean! Let the Fleshmom run free!
Until then, maybe tomorrow I’ll try starting the day off right by wearing something besides the standard college girl uniform of sweatpants and flip flops.
If any of my pants still fit.
*UPS stands for useless piece of…
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