Tums have an aftertaste. I eat so many of them, I actually know this as fact.
If I could fit my feet into normal shoes, I wouldn’t be able to tie them. I can’t bend over that far. And my flip-flops, my beloved Rainbows, no longer fit. The leather straps leave indentations in my skin. I can only wear Crocs. I actually had to go out and buy Crocs.
My watch is tight. My wedding rings are tight. I’m swollen everywhere.
I always have to pee. I always had to pee anyway, but now there’s a tiny human banging into my bladder, which makes the I-Have-To-Pee Sensation that much worse and more urgent.
When I get home, it’s a struggle to stay awake. But when I go to bed, it’s a struggle to roll over and get comfortable, so I’m struggling no matter where I am. And then I wake up with aching hips and a sore back.
I’m hungry ALL. THE. TIME.
I look like a contortionist when I try to shave my legs.
I got stretch marks. Faint ones, and only a few, but they’re there. They’ll always be there. Even if my body goes back to the way it was – which is not likely – I will always have stretch marks.
I have new freckles. A lot of new freckles. Yes, they’re from pregnancy. My doctor says so. It’s all part of the new you, she says.
I’m ready for this pregnancy to be over…
But I’m not ready for the baby to be here.
I want to go back to early September. I want a week to take scalding baths. To drink a big goblet of wine. To wear stilettos. To stay up late. To run. To paint my toenails. To wear pants with buttons. To go whitewater rafting. To sleep on my stomach. To sleep on my back. To not have half of my brain focused on a baby I’ve never met at all times.
And then I’ll return to my 8th month of pregnancy. I’ll continue to prepare for my baby. I’ll wash her clothes. I’ll suck-up the aches and pains, the hunger and exhaustion. I’ll be the best mama-to-be possible.