I’m in the “any day now” end of pregnancy phase.
It’s kicking my butt.
I’ve heard from several people over the course of the child-growing-inside-of-me years that before you go into labor, you’ll get a burst of energy.
By that logic, I don’t think I’m ever having a baby. ever. I’m going to be pregnant forever.
It really does feel that way.
I’ve done so well preparing for this kid -better than I’ve ever done. But everything is coming UN-done and I wonder why in the world I bothered. It started with the fridge. I cleaned it. I was so proud of myself. It wasn’t exactly easy or pleasant (hello, heightened sense of smell). But I DID it. I closed the fridge door, brushed my hands off on my pants and proclaimed, “Okay, Baby. NOW you can come.”
Weeks later, my fridge is a mess again and there’s no way I’m going to clean it. I can hardly move here, people.
I also got rid of my facial hair. This might seem really stupid to you, but you haven’t seen my facial hair (or maybe you have and you totally understand why getting rid of it before I meet someone as important as my own CHILD would be a big deal). Pregnancy has made it grow faster. longer. thicker. It’s really cute.
I made sure it was GONE a few weeks ago. Yesterday I made sure it was gone again. And this morning, I plucked no less than 7 thick, long black hairs that have already started growing back on my chinny-chin-chin.
Sick.
And also a little amazing that I can grow hair so fast.
But my hospital bag. BEATS. ALL.
I actually packed one which is more than I did for my 36 week-er son. I’ve been lovingly putting articles in it for the past month: a soft pink crocheted Santa hat for the Baby, my favorite old Christmas movies, a robe, an extra outfit…
And I don’t know why, but I got it into my head that I had to have some of Mom’s granola or I’d die, or something. I finally bought all the stuff and made a double batch. I pulled about 3 cups of granola out, put it in a ziploc bag and put it in my hospital bag.
Yesterday, I noticed that a MOUSE had gotten in my sweet full-of-stuff-for-my-pure-baby bag! It ate through the plastic and ATE MY GRANOLA!
I threw the entire bag away and washed everything inside of it… and then I went and started the process of picking out two brand new kittens.
Santa’s bringing them to me. I’m going to name one Mouser and the other Killer.
I’m sure my kids will talk me out of those names by December 25th, but UNTIL THEN.
I’ve been a sort of sobby Nazi about my house for the past month… I want the floors cleaned, the dishes done. In short, it would be really sweet of my family to just stop actually living IN the house. I realize it’s ridiculous to want this. I realize it. But if they just knew how hard it is to keep up with them… and how un-awesome it feels when everything I do gets un-done in less than half the time it takes to get it done… *sigh*
Especially today.
I’m surrounded by the dirtiest house, the dirtiest fridge, the most hairy chin, the most empty hospital bag (everything is in the dryer)… and I’m just waiting for the polish my husband so patiently put on my toes (because I beggggggggggged) to chip off.
At this point, the physical pains are mounting… building off of each other like a well-honed NBA team.
Do you have any idea how much it hurts to roll over in my bed?
And do you have any idea how much of a whiner you feel like when you look up at your husband lying next to you in bed and say through tears, “It hurts to roll over”?
I mean, women through the ages have given birth in covered wagons! fields! prisons! and here I am in my plush king-sized beg, bawling about how much it hurts me to *hand placed lightly to breast* move.
I don’t want to complain.
I want to only be grateful and glowing and receptive to the growing life within me.
I need live-in help of the female variety who understands things like the importance of polished toes and clean floors. It isn’t that my husband isn’t great.
He is.
He’s just… a HE.
And thank goodness for him… because if I didn’t live with him, I wouldn’t have any clothes to wear. I’m growing out of my maternity clothes. What should I wear to church tomorrow?
I have a tarp outside…
38 weeks and 3 days today, impatiently waiting for that promised burst of energy with which I will kill all the mice in all the world and then make more granola.
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