We now return to your regularly scheduled programming by stating the obvious:
Everything does hurt and I am dying.
I am experiencing third trimester symptoms of an unspeakable nature. Things have taken a turn for the horrible. I’ve got a fancy set of compression socks plus an industrial-grade maternity belt sitting in my Amazon shopping cart because I’ve just accepted where I am in my life right now.
Backache combined with a complete inability to move without needing an oxygen tank got me like:
Except I’m too tired to shower.
Sunday night I was jolted awake by the mother of all Charlie-horses; I’ve never felt so much pain, and I’m pretty sure I gave Caleb a mini heart attack with my man screams. This morning I got one that wouldn’t quit no matter how much I flexed my foot (once I could reach it). My entire leg kept seizing up on me as I hobbled to the bathroom to pee for the 6,000 time.
And yes, I cried.
Digestion is annoying:
I’ve been able to regulate my blood sugar by diet alone, and I’ve only had to give up my breakfast bagels. Plus I eat more food more often–which is harder to do than it sounds.
Diabetes, I don’t sweat you.
In other news, life around our house has been fairly news-less. Boring even. Caleb’s been out of town and I’ve held down the fort with Jesus, and cereal for dinner.
We’ve been family-movie-night-ing it up this week with the DVD box set of all the Rocky movies, and the real question is: Why aren’t I naming my next son Clubber Lang?
The babies’ room is sooooo close to being all finished. I’ve washed, dried, folded, organized, and put away every tiny article of clothing into one of two dressers which a friend so graciously bestowed upon our family last weekend. I may or may not find the energy to work on a painting I’ve had in mind for these little ones–my plan is to work the mantra “Stronger Together” into some bright, bold, colorful shapes. We’ll see how it goes. I’m trying to decide if I want to make a mobile or just order one; the picky, miserly part of me is winning out and it looks like my creative streak will not be allowed to stop with a simple painting.
Well that’s really it. Bout to brace myself for another fun filled day of carrying a forty pound weight directly on my crotch, leg cramps, and the consequential nausea from, ya know, pain.