I know, I know…it gets worse. IT GETS WORSE. JUST YOU WAIT. Be thankful that you are not covered in rashes, hemorrhoids that would rival Mt. Everest, oozing stretch marks, & unable to leave the toilet because your child dropped kicked you straight in the bladder, BECAUSE IT’S COMING.
Right? I believe that’s the protocol, correct? Oh, and the ever-fantastic “Save up on sleep now, BECAUSE THE ONLY REM YOU WILL VISIT IN THE NEXT 50 YEARS IS MUDDLING THROUGH LOSING MY RELIGION ON YOUR WAY TO DAYCARE DROP-OFF.”
With the typical cliches out of the way, I would like to inform you that I have officially entered the first stage of being really effing uncomfortable. Yes, it required the F-dash-dash-dash word to really convey my misery. My back aches. My feet are swollen to the point that they might self-combust at any given moment. I haven’t seen my ankles in over 2 months. I have baby feet in my far right ribs, my uterus pushes on my lungs like Heidi Klum’s wonder bra to where I am gasping for breath by the 3rd stair, & I am pretty sure that a wee leprechaun with a tiny hammer is slowly chipping away at my hip bones. Did I mention the dragon eroding my esophagus? Because Zantac 75 is a joke. My heartburn MOCKS YOU, Zantac. Mocks you, with two middle fingers up in the air, telling you to sit & twist on your “new & improved” formula.
Oh, & I won’t even effing mention Rosie & her new lesbian lover:
(notice how Tuck decided to stick her slim foot in there? Bitch always has to show me up)
But my hips. Oh, sweet baby Jesus in a manger of hay, MY HIPS. I blame my OB for throwing it out to the universe, for I had been relatively pain free until she said, “Oh, by the way, you’ll probably start noticing hip pain as your ligaments loosen in preparation for delivery.” & I swear, it was not mind games, but my hips started aching the moment I leaped off the exam table. OBSTETRICIAN VOODOO. & in the past few weeks, it’s become excruciating. Two hours on my feet for an appointment? I’m in full waddle, just trying to make it without my hips literally buckling under me in refusal to work. I’m going to begin calling them Boxer, thanks to my man George Orwell. Overworked, under-appreciated, & being sent to slaughter by my own little oinker, aka Harrison. Walking aches. Bending aches. Existing aches. & to get out of bed, I beg Nate to pull me since my hips have no ability to function properly on their own.
In short? I’m miserable.
& at the same time, so weirdly happy that I can hardly stand myself. I feel like I could bottle these hormones & sell them on the Black Market with profit to the point that Nate & I could buy Johnny Depp’s island & live there with servants & a few chickens. Or I wish I could make my physical self feel as awesome as my emotional self. I love being pregnant. Which is a weird thing to say, considering the 5-minute diatribe that compares my body to the book Animal Farm, but I truly, truly adore being pregnant. I am in no rush for this to be over. You know how some pregnant women say that they “can’t wait” to meet their daughter or son? I don’t feel that way. Don’t get me wrong — I’m pumped to have an outside baby at some point. But I’m treasuring nights like tonight, where I can practically hear the pages turn in Nate’s book as he reads 2 rooms away. I feel like I’m starting to know Harrison’s personality & it feels like our sweet little secret, instead of something the entire world can see.
& for now, despite the necessary need for hip replacements in the coming years, I love this stage of life we’re in together.
Because that shiz is IMPRESSIVE. That’s 9:30am, folks. I seriously might cry because you could GO SWIMMING IN MY ANKLE there is so much fluid. Compression hosiery, here I come…because nothing says “sexy” like dressing like your Grandma Doris.
