Waiting

Being pregnant means never having to say you’re sorry.

So I’m not.

I’m not sorry that I haven’t posted once in my third trimester.

I’m not sorry that I have drafts I never published in my third trimester.

I’m not sorry that I just wasn’t in the mood to write in my third trimester.

So there.

Why haven’t I written? I’m not sure. I’ve had thoughts. Lots of thoughts. I probably will look back and wish I had written. They say that the mind will forget what the body goes through during pregnancy. Perhaps I was sparing myself the documentation.

I also pushed myself (I know, I know, you’re sooooo surprised) due to work events that were out of my control (and in a few cases, just out of control) and so since about mid-April on, I’ve been beyond busy and physically destroyed.

The Braxton-Hicks started shortly after a week of 15-hour days (don’t ask, just don’t say the word “Bollywood” around me). That was week 32. That was 6 weeks ago. Last Wednesday, they became the “real-deal” in terms of intensity and discomfort. And 6 days later – they’re about the same.

It sucks.

It also comes with horrifying hormones that I can’t control.  This is hard for me. Mr. Forty would tell you that for a pregnant lady, I’ve been fairly level. My default is a bit feisty (everyone who knows me is now rolling their eyes and saying, “A bit feisty?!?!” And those people can fuck off), but all things being equal, I’ve been pretty good.  My instinct is to laugh at damn near everything (inability to bend over and pick something up, inability to get out the car, inability to form words that makes sense, inability to fit into any clothing, inability to fit into any shoes, inability to walk for more than a few feet without needing a sit-down for myself, inability to recognize my own reflection, etc.).

Lately, as in the past week, the hormones have gone in the other direction. After a bout of really bad contractions (but never so many that we can say “Go Time!”) I couldn’t stop crying. I just wasn’t quite ready to leave the amazing twosome that Mr. Forty and I have made. I think there’s another post in me about just how amazing this man is and how very much in awe of him I am several times a day. I regret so very little in life, but there is a part of me that does wish he and I could have had just a bit more time together before we made the biologically responsible choice to start a family while we could still pick the kid up.

Point? The crying jags suck balls. I hate hormones.

BUT… I’m going to miss stuffing my face.  I hear that breastfeeding allows you  a calorie free-for-all and I certainly hope so. I don’t know what magic has occurred in my third trimester, but no matter how much I shovel into my face hole, I show up to my doctor’s appt. only putting on my allowed “one pound per week.” It’s fucking delightful and I don’t care if that’s a humble brag or not. I’m going to take the small pieces of grace I have gotten.

I think the weirdest thing is that I stopped driving.  Completely. Haven’t been behind the wheel of a car in over three weeks. Because I’m only 5′ and I have legs the length of a baseball bat (not really, but go with hyperbole – it’s funny), my belly is smack up against the steering wheel. Mr. Forty took one look at that and said, “Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.”

A weird thing happened.

I gave up control and agreed with him.

That’s not to say that in life I’m a control freak who will argue my point to exhaustion.

Just that normally in life, I’m a control freak who will argue my point to exhaustion.

I’m grateful, very grateful that we have the kind of life that Mr. Forty can drop me off at work and pick me up. I’m also grateful for the time we got to spend in the car every morning, with our dogs, going to work. It was a lovely ritual for a few weeks and I will always remember it very very fondly.

I’m working from home now. Last week I was trying to get to the bathroom and a co-worker saw me. I might also want to mention I was having a contraction I could barely walk through. It scared the shit out of everybody and they packed me up and Mr. Forty came and picked me up.

I don’t like scaring people, so I did the honorable thing and stayed home. It’s nicer. I’m more productive anyway. I have a comfy chair with support, my feet are elevated (if you call those two little loaves of bread a the end of my legs “feet”), and I can Skype my meetings wearing Mr. Forty’s gym shorts and the only top that looks nice that still fits.

For the last week, we’ve finished the nursery (in the words of George Carlin, “It’s cuter than a dick.”) in all dragons and purples and greens. It’s, as the kids say, totes adorbs. The room is full of the generosity of all of our friends and family. I’m serious when I say that Mr. Forty and I bought the nursery furniture and that’s about it. From the showers to the random gifts that seem to show up daily, I am acutely aware of how humbled we are by the outpouring of love for Critter.

Also checked off the to-do list, we’ve packed up the to-go bags, we’ve gotten Trader Joe’s snacks for the L&D nurses, and we’ve walked everywhere. I also am drinking my raspberry tea, eating pineapple, dates, and making damn near everything but my cereal spicy. Oh and the other thing – but can we not talk about that? Because seriously people I don’t need to be telling me “what got you into this situation will get you out,” are telling me that. It makes me want to throw up on them – for realz. Of course, when they tell me that I just smile and say, “Drinking lots of margaritas and eating barbecue?” (Which is total bullshit btw, I have no idea really when Critter came to be – we have theories, but I ain’t sharing them with anybody).

I started nesting on Sunday. I bought a cookbook and supplies to start crocheting. I haven’t done crochet in 15 years. It’s soothing. I like it. I’m cooking all day today – freezing some casseroles and what not.  Nesting is fun.

In some ways, writing this morning was a bit of nesting. I feel the need to “touch base” with everyone before “Go Time” happens. This blog was a very meaningful touchstone for me. Maybe by writing this I’m checking in with me. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doing.

If I had to write a note to my pregnant self, from where I am right now – I would remind her that she has PLENTY of time. She needs to stop freaking out about the “box room,” as it will become a “nursery” with time to spare. I would tell her to take it easy. She wouldn’t listen, but I’d tell her anyway. I tell her to drink more water. I’d tell her to hug Mr. Forty more, because it will never be enough, you will always want to hug him more.

This is the only time I will be this pregnant with this child. As miserable as I feel most of the time, it doesn’t compare to how lucky I am to be here, how fortunate I am to have this moment. I never really believed it would come to pass. And here I am – up early, sitting quietly, writing, and waiting to meet my son.

Life doesn’t suck.