I’m 30 weeks and 1–or 2–days along in pregnancy numero uno. Well, not numero uno. But it sounds dumb to say numero three, doesn’t it? And what a difference there is between them! I cannot remember being THIS tired THIS much with my other two kids. My belly feels tense, my legs are sore, and my crotch absolutely aches. By 9:00 p.m. I’m practically crawling into the bed, where I whimper pathetically until I fall asleep, which doesn’t take long. During the course of the night I will get up no less than 3 times to pee. I’ve tried limiting the amount of water I drink between dinner and bedtime. THIS DOES NOTHING.
Caleb’s pretty awesome about letting me sleep in the morning, if I feel like it, and when he’s out of town, Cheyenne’s pretty awesome at getting herself up, dressed, fed, and out the door on her own. I know–sometimes I too, wonder if she’s a real kid, but I was just like that at her age. So I know I have it coming to me when Mia and her little brother are old enough to go to school. I’m fairly sure I’ll be dressing them and feeding them in their grumbly half-sleep every morning.
At around 10:00 a.m. I get this overwhelming urge to sleep and I pass out wherever I may be–on the couch, on the bed, on the floor in Mia’s room beside a pile of legos with a stuffed pig for a pillow. If left alone, I think I could sleep for a couple hours; however, this theory has never had the chance to be proven and I usually wake up drooling only a groggy 15 minutes later. I stumble around the house for a little while with lofty ambitions of going to the grocery store or running to the post office, but usually by the time I empty the dishwasher and fold a load of laundry I’m just about done for the day–I have to save enough energy to get a shower and brush my teeth. By 4:00 p.m. some of my body’s stiffness wears off and I feel ready to conquer the world…so I sweep the back porch and walk to the mailbox to get rid of that feeling. My fat ass hasn’t had this much couchtime in years…or probably ever.
Amazingly enough, my official weight gain totals to only 7 pounds, although I know the actual size of my belly would lead someone to believe I’ve put on about ten times that amount. I think my baby must have gotten his hands on a mega-balloon somehow and is blowing it up world-record size in there. I offer no other ideas; there’s just no way that at 7 months my kid is big enough to be taking up all this room. Not yet.
The past few days I’ve had those crazy Braxton-Hicks contractions on and off. They’re not painful–and apparently it’s perfectly normal to have them more frequently and to feel them more intensely with each pregnancy, but I still worry a little. A friend of ours recently gave birth to her first child. Her due date? May 19th–only 2 days before me. That’s a solid 2 and a half months early. There was no warning, and her labor just could not be stopped. The last I heard, that teeny-tiny little girl (named Payton, and weighing in at only 2 pounds and some-odd ounces) is doing alright–breathing on her own, even–but of course will be spending the next several weeks in the hospital.
Come to think of it, over the course of the past year, I’ve known probably 10 women who have either had a baby or are pregnant; only one other girl besides me have had zero complications so far. It never dawned on me what a delicate business this is–I’ve always taken it for granted that things will go exactly the way they’re supposed to. I sure don’t mean to sound ungrateful when I complain about the aches and pains and potty breaks and interrupted cat naps of pregnancy. Maybe it’s the space cadet in me. Maybe I’m naive. Maybe I’m in denial.
Maybe I’d just better shut the hell up and appreciate the fact that so far I have a healthy baby inside of a healthy body, no matter how bad my crotch hurts. And no matter how much I love to bitch and moan.