So I readily admit that this pregnancy has been remarkably easy. No (and I mean not a single twinge of) morning sickness which for me is nothing short of miraculous. Much more reasonable weight gain than prior pregnancies (still on the high end, but at least within spitting distance of normal, even considering my starting point was a titch higher than it might have been in the first few).
But I'm going to vent for the next 3 minutes (until the kids finish their bedtime snack and start circling and demanding lap space). I HATE third trimester. And I'm barely even in it. At least I think I am. Actually, the thing that is most noticeable about later pregnancies is just how unmonitored they are, at least by this mama. With Grace, I thoroughly noticed and analyzed every tiny twinge and hiccup. I read dozens of books (really--this is no exaggeration as my recent attempt at halving my books, a sad and disheartening prospect--has shown me. And my mom informed me that medically speaking I am now what is known as "a grand mul-tip" or something like that. Sounds sort of regal, doesn't it?) I also knew almost to the second how much time remained until my due date. Now, if it weren't for the babycenter.com emails I receive each week (and when the heck did I manage to sign up for that? I ask you), I couldn't even tell you what month I am in. With Grace, and less so with each subsequent baby, I felt personally responsible for ensuring the continuation of my pregnancy through sheer force of will, focus, and devotion to prenatal vitamins and a religious avoidance of tuna fish, soft cheeses, deli meat, and, of course all alcohol. With this one, I could nearly (nearly) forget for weeks that I was pregnant at all. Until now.
So I am due April 15. What does that make me? 26 weeks and something, I think? Anyway, trimesters are 13 weeks a piece, so that puts me just in the very foothills of the mountains of trimester 3. And I'm already dragging.
I hate this part. Other than the delightful popcorn bouncing of this little baby bug (which is decidedly less delightful in the middle of the night), there is not much joy in these dragging last 3 months.
I hate my clothes. I hate my feet. I have completely stopped speaking to my legs (seriously--you do not have to gain and metamorphisize into something so horrid at such a disgusting rate. Your job is so peripheral to this whole effort, really). My smile is beginning to retreat entirely into the folds of my fat face. My hemorrhoids are acting up. I breathe like Darth Vadar with a head cold and have to lie down every time I take a load of laundry up the steps just in order to catch my breath. I am hot all the time (which makes me grateful this last trip down this long, long road will complete before any real prospect of hot weather sets in). And I just have no energy. My life requires a lot of energy. The others are minor annoyances, but the exhaustion can be nearly insurmountable.
Case in point, the queen is on my lap, Claire is insisting on helping me "on the 'puter" and Grace is performing girl scout camp songs and demanding a better audience than I am currently providing. Sam is MIA, but I'm guessing his silence involves contraband chocolate chips. Oops, no--he needs someone (guess who?) to bring him toilet paper.
So, perhaps the beauty of this last pregnancy is the complete lack of attention and time I have to pay to its inevitable march towards April, even now in these exhausting last weeks. Remarkably, in spite of my utter inability to give it any more than a passing thought here and there and a grudging avoidance of wine and diet pop (most of the time), things are progressing just fine.
It's 8pm. I have about 30 minutes before I will be drooling into my pillow, regardless of whether the little ducks are settled or not. I best be off...
Good night bug. Glad you can get what you need from this big old body of mine whether I pay you any attention or not. Good thing my love doesn't falter even when my attention does.
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