Let it all out

Important stuff to note before I begin: I have had an blissfully uncomplicated, healthy, normal pregnancy, for which Iam incredibly, unbelievably grateful. Athird uncomplicated, healthy, normal pregnancy. Fortunate to the nth degree, for sure. For sure! As someone who has taken medical school embryology (which clearly makes me an expert), let me just say that there are approximately one kabillion things that could have gone wrong, starting with conception and multiplying exponentially with every day of gestation. (I would not recommend that class to anyone who was currently with child, FYI.) That any of us is here is entirely a miracle, no question about it. No doubt! Amen!Wonder of wonders, double rainbows, the end!

However.

Y’all, I am tired. (Read with a Southern accent:tarred.) I list back and forth on tree trunk legs down the hall to the bathroom multiple times a day where I sit and pee and sit and wait and pee and sit and wait and then pee some more, with an output that would barely fill a thimble. My lunch crams into a miniscule stomach space for what feels like hours on end, visiting my esophagus with burning regularity. The skin on my feet bulges out from the holes in my shoes like puff pastry, leaving a Converse or boot or sandal shaped indention, depending on what fashion I’ve managed to squeeze into that morning. The marks totally overstay their welcome.

Shout, shout, let it all out
These are the things I could do without

I can’t pick my kids up (well, Noah I haven’t been able to pick up for a long time, but he’s 7 and is on pace to outgrow a Yeti), I’ve grown an extra chin, and I drop ALLTHETHINGS, immediately after which I project scathing, hate-filled looks towards the floor for a full minute before starting my slow and groan-filled descent to retrieve them. My lower back pinches and pulls and makes me suck air in through my teeth with a sharp gasp when I stand up from my desk. I’m starting to outgrow my maternity clothes, even the ones I scoffed at in the beginning, because “I’ll never be that huge.” My pile of wearable outfits grows more and more meager by the day.

Total eclipse of the feet.

The baby never stops moving. (Healthy! Grateful!) Like, no, but never. The swell of my belly rolls and roils while Idrive, while Isleep, whyile I siiitt wwithhhhg thhe lapotoppr aaganst mry bmummp too tyypp thgis poast. He stretches and pushes and my abs don’t go that way baby, they just don’t, OW. A hand on my hip bone, a heel in my rib, and hiccups every hour, like a nervous tic in my midsection pulsing out an annoying steady beat, a tiny drum in a one-man uterine band.

Come on
I’m talking to you
Come on

Imiss beer. And sleeping on my stomach. And sleeping on my back. And coming from a running start to do a flying leap onto my bed. (Which Idon’t ever ever do, but it might be nice to have the option! Is all I’m saying.) Itake wrong turns on my drive home from the job I’ve driven home from for a solid year and a half and address emails to the wrong person only to have to email them right back with a Mea culpa! Pregnancy brain-o-rama! (cc:Everyone)

I can’t see the places I used to be able to see, and I’m not talking about my feet, ifyouknowwhatImean. My legs haven’t felt a razor in weeks (months?) My nose grows ever larger and the lines on my ring finger tell me my wedding bands’ days are numbered. The veins on the backs of my hands stick out like a blue roads on a topographical roadmap, filled to capacity with all the extra blood sloshing around my circulatory system. You guys, Ihave gas. Lots of gas.

I’m big and only getting bigger. The silvery streaks that run across my belly button are spreading. Also? I still have eight weeks to go.

Hold me.

Shout, shout, let it all out
These are the things Icould do without
Come on
I’m talking to you
Come on

Right on, Tears for Fears. Right on. Meanwhile, l’ll try my best to heed the prophetic lip balm:

(Only maybe not the Have a Baby part just quite yet. Soon, though. Soon.)