Ok, that’s it, I quit….I don’t wanna do 8 + more weeks! I don’t wanna! I feel fat, I feel tired, I feel lazy, I feel…I feel just plain fed up! I know we all get to this point. I know that we all silently cry during our 85th middle of the night bathroom trip. I know this. Do I care? Not a bit. As every other pregnant woman on the home stretch will agree, no one, NO ONE can possibly be as miserable as you. And when you do find someone who may have a smidgen of an idea of your misery, you find yourself comparing complaints like war vets with battle scars…
“Man these braxton hicks are getting intense.”
“Ya my back is killing me.”
“I get up in the middle of the night to pee.”
“I get up three times in the middle of the night to pee.”
“I have 8 more weeks!”
“Ya? I have 9!!”
Everything was going great until about week 27. That’s when my back started to ache a bit and my hips began to do that super comfy throbbing thing in my sleep…From there the braxton hicks kicked in and ya, I said KICKED in….with a vengeance. Shortly after acquiring a virtual vice grip around my swollen mid section, I started getting ass pain. Uh huh, yep, ass. As in the general tailbone/butt cheek/side butt area. But that’s not all! I’ve also started getting lightening crotch. Don’t know what that is? Google it. Lots of fun…Another little treat is the sensation of a full to capacity bladder immediately upon standing up from emptying it! How is that even possible?!?!
Aside from the many physical discomforts, the shit has hit the emotional fan. I have been rendered a mopey, blubbery, almost constantly teary eyed mess. The man boy goes to Canadian tire to buy a new camping axe, I cry because I think he’s always trying to find excuses to leave me. My girl tells me she can do something all by herself, I cry because she’s growing up too fast and she’s not going to be my baby for much longer. I’m loading the dishwasher, I cry because we have to many dishes?! Oh! Here’s a good one! I went to take my prenatal vitamin the other night and grabbed the chocolate milk out of the fridge to choke it back with. I gave it a good shake and the lid popped off, chocolate milk everywhere. I sharply yell FU*K!! Man Boy didn’t close it properly. He comes into the kitchen to see what’s up, says he’ll clean it up and not to yell at him. So I start sobbing uncontrollably. Like hiccuping, snot faced, shoulder shaking mess because I’m convinced he thinks I’m an asshole for snapping at him. It took one very understanding and slightly amused husband to talk me down and repeatedly assure me I’m really not a mean and terrible person and everyone does not in fact hate me…Sigh….I can not even begin to describe the level of ridiculousness I have stooped to. Hormones are kicking my ass.
I know that it could be so much worse. There are some ladies who go through 9 months of hell for their squatters. I count myself fortunate that the worst of my issues are some serious and random dog hate, (my poor Jersey :/) and the instinct to snarl and hiss at anyone I deem shifty (which lately includes most classes of stranger, pregnamones don’t discriminate) who comes to close to my person. Ya, even I admit that’s a weird one…I’m really trying to kick back a bit and enjoy the last weeks of just the three of us. Trying. Really trying…All I gotta say is, as of 37 weeks, scheduled C-section or not, I am doing everything in my power to evict this tiny tenant! Crazy bitch, over and out!
Miss K ❤
kikichiikii 