Let me tell you the things that I already know before I begin.
I know that I am profoundly lucky to be enjoying a third, healthy pregnancy. Things have gone mostly fine for us and that is a blessing I know many are not afforded. I know that children are a gift. I know that it’s alllll worth it in the end. I know that I am going to seem like such an ingrate for the next ten minutes or so as I back peddle off of my last post full of zen and insight and instead devolve into some kind of hormonal creature bent on destroying anything that stands between her and a donut. I know I’m about to sound irrational. I know that I’m about to sound ungrateful and over the top.
I. Know. Before you can think it, or comment and say it, I already know that I’m about to sound like a jackass. Just a note, I am probably going to use the word “literally” a lot. Because it is all pretty much on the money.
But you know what? I’m three pregnancies in, people. Forget the simple, sweet maternity pictures. Forget the gender reveal cupcakes. The baby booties. The onesies with a smiling pineapple wearing sunglasses on them, with a frilly, green tulle skirt (even though it’s seriously adorbs, who comes up with this crap? And how do they know it’s going to make you tear up while standing in the aisle at Target) Forget everything that is cute and sweet and idyllic and whimsical about being pregnant. I have earned the right to be pissed.
Come with me on a journey for just a moment.
Come with me while I play my newest and most “favorite” game: is that the baby moving…or is it a fart?
Yessss, that’s right. My hair has grown an inch or two since becoming pregnant. My skin has this sheen to it that’s really is made up of actual sheen as opposed to copious amounts of sweat like my two previous pregnancies. So there’s that, right? Three pregnancies in and I have finally achieved that seemingly unattainable dream of having kind of nice hair and decent skin while being with child. But not so fast with the serene stuff. Let’s talk about how I feel like I could fart a door off of its hinges.
Let’s talk about putting my husband to absolute SHAME when it comes to belching (okay, maybe I’ve always been able to out belch him) and farting. Let’s talk about how I’m not even 30 yet and I am totally suspicious of my own farts. Suspicious enough that I have just written a paragraph about them. You’re welcome.
Follow me as I visit the bathroom 15 times a night. And how during every trip I need to throw a sleeping dog from off top of me, fling the husband’s arms from around me and somehow manage to get myself into a 90 degree angle. Then let’s talk about how I have to pause for at least a hot minute after doing so. Because the moment I peed on that stick and saw two pink lines, I found out that you can apparently become winded VERY easily and very early on during pregnancy.
Like, even before you’re showing. Like, where people think that you must just be tremendously out of shape since pushing a shopping cart that only has a pack of toilet paper and a gallon of milk in it shouldn’t be that hard. Like how picking laundry up off of the floor shouldn’t get someone that winded. I love going up one flight of stairs and feeling like I am most certainly going to die. Absolutely love it.
Let’s talk about how for the past week my children have wanted to hang off of me like two additional appendages. Because my burgeoning belly and the person INSIDE OF IT isn’t enough of an added force and a constant enough presence for me. I also need two MORE people on me – literally- asking if they can just go ahead and eat my lunch for me. Because this is one season of life that I LOVE sharing my food.
Let’s talk about how I just found out that the husband and kids ate what remained of a bag of Sour Cream and Onion Utz chips and how it’s really sad that I have been daydreaming about them (and sushi….and cherry coke…and watermelon) all. evening. long. and now they’re gone. Mad. I was legitimately mad that my chemically processed potatoes had ceased to be. Potatoes don’t grow on trees, people. At least not potatoes covered in that oh so tasty dextrose stuff.
And can we talk about how I have a ton of crap to do…every day. And how I just want someone else to come over and do it for me? I mean, seriously. The next person that stops by just to say “hi” or to drop off a UPS package or deliver a pizza is getting asked to empty my dishwasher or dust my ceiling fan. Because not only am I tired FROM doing it, I’m tired OF doing it.
I’ve done it enough in the last five years. I have folded enough clothes. Wiped enough bottoms (well, mostly the SAME bottoms, just enough times.) I have picked dead food out of the strainer in my kitchen enough times, cleaned the floor around the toilets enough times. I just don’t freaking want to do it anymore. And I don’t want to do it with a big fat belly.
And that brings me to the belly. Any delusion that I have had this time about NOT feeling like I’m packing on the weight goes out the window when my son watches in wonder as I try to thrust myself off of the couch, his eyes wide with curiosity and amazement. And after my small, personal, vertical victory, he then likes to exclaim, “WOW, you’re belly is getting, like, really really big.” Thank goodness he is absolutely adorable. I love that with still another trimester to go that my legs feel like tree trunks. That my ankles are starting to swell.
I hate that the cure-all for some of these things is rest, and lots of it, when rest and sitting and relaxing are the three things that I hardly ever got to do on a regular basis BEFORE being pregnant. So, now, the difference is that they’re essential. And they are still hardly attainable. Because my children seem to be in some silent agreement with one another that the second mommy’s ass cheek touches the couch cushion, or the moment she puts a fork with food on it to her mouth to take a bite that they need to spill something/argue over something/hurt themselves/need something.
But it’s okay, I get to spend all day being tired only to find out that the second I lay in my bed, insomnia sets in and I can’t fall or stay asleep. And when I sleep, I dream about a zombie apocalypse or KFC or some other such nonsense. But I will have to try to keep from falling asleep in a bowl of Raisin Bran in the morning.
And let’s talk about how I hate every type of food in my house at the moment. Nothing EVER looks good or desirable when I’m hungry. No matter what I pick out at the store. No matter what type of food (salty, sweet, savory, etc…) it is. No matter if I’m looking at a menu while out to eat and I have 52 options just for soup. Nothing ever sounds appealing. Nothing ever seems to hit that satisfaction nerve when I take a bite. A person should not spend three days fantasizing about Twinkies only to be sorely disappointed when she finally obtains one. #justsaying
And then there are the hormones. Why am I crying while watching episodes of “Sex and the City”? Why am I crying at Darius Rucker songs on the radio? Why am I practically crying while driving because I just hit a bird with my van? I mean, legitimate sadness over this bird. It’s either that or rage. Over my chips. Over reading people’s Facebook statuses talking about how tired they are. Over not being able to open a jar of pickles on my own.
So there you have it. More than 1,000 words dedicated to the wonder that is a third pregnancy.
I’m happy for my fall baby. I’m happy that they are moving around and thriving. I’m overjoyed that my family and my children are happy to have a new sibling. And I am happy. When I rest my hand on my tummy and the baby moves, and I feel them, it’s like totally the best thing ever. It’s my third time and it doesn’t change the fact that it’s an incredible and unique process. It doesn’t get old knowing there is a new soul in the world. Even if they are sucking the life out of me slowly. Even if they make me crave Fluffer-Nutter on my peanut butter sandwiches.
I’ll make it. The sandwich, that is. I’m going to go make a sandwich.