Monday, March 8th, 2010
According to BabyCenter.com, my uterus is now roughly the size of a basketball. I’ve never been good at sports – maybe that’s why all of a sudden I feel so miserable?
Let me first say the obligatory spiel – yes, of course, it will all be worth it in the end, I’m still super-excited about the baby herself, and there are definitely good parts, like feeling her move, and when D lays his head on my belly and talks to her.
But geez, lately I’ve been understanding the phrase “feeling like a beached whale” more and more. I can’t get comfortable in bed, so I turn over approximately 175 times per night, and each time is a massive undertaking. I start out on my right side, snuggling Mount Squishy, the enormous blue body pillow taking up precious real estate between me and D. Then I wake up with my shoulder hurting, or my hip, or my elbow, and decide to flip over. I push myself up with my arms, make a pained grunt like a muddy sow, and somehow manage to flop earth-shakingly onto my back.
In the old days, I could roll from one side to the other in one motion, but now I have to take a break in the middle and rest on my back. Sometimes, I give up and fall asleep there for a while, even though back-sleeping is not recommended for pregnant folks.
I can’t really get comfortable on my back because I know it makes my lower back/hip region hurt worse in the morning, it makes me snore more, and I worry it will cut off the blood flow to the baby or something, so a few minutes later, comes another grunty episode, wherein I flop to the other side, tidal-wave style.
And every time, I look at the clock and think, “Geez, isn’t it time to wake up yet? I can’t take this much longer!” I am a person who values – nay! worships! – my sleep, and now I’m hoping it’s morning? This is a new kind of misery. (And, as you can imagine, D isn’t exactly sleeping like a dream during all this, either.)
Then when it finally is time to get up, I have to roll out of bed in an undignified fashion, and my first several steps are agonizing in the lower back/hip region, so I walk exactly like my mother after a long car ride. Same thing happens after I’ve been sitting for a while, or lying on the couch in an awkward position, and awkward positions are the only ones I seem to be able to find anymore.
Sometimes, D even has to help me off the couch. Sometimes, bending over feels like squishing my insides. Yesterday, I almost had a heart attack trying to put on a pair of tights.
And what I can hardly believe about all this is that I am only just now entering the third trimester. I have an entire 13 weeks to go, and everything is only going to get worse. If my belly keeps up this rate of growth, I’m going to be four inches bigger in the waist by then. FOUR INCHES. My baby is going to weigh roughly SIX MORE POUNDS.
As it is, I can’t make it through a normal trip to the grocery store without being near collapsing with back pain by the end, and my baby only weighs a little over 2 pounds! Meanwhile, freakin’ WhattoExpect.com keeps sending me e-mails about pregnancy exercises and how some unidentified study indicates my baby is going to be underdeveloped and unintelligent if I don’t exercise, and labor will be worse, and basically I’m a terrible person if I don’t run a marathon three times a week. If I had a heated indoor swimming pool, I’d do that, but oh wait – I’m not a multi-millionaire. And there’s no way I’m dragging my gigantic self to town to swim in front of strangers.
Also, while I’m on a roll, I’m currently freaking out about my baby shower because my aunts and sisters-in-law are throwing it, yet my Mom seems to be the one running the show, and she keeps asking me questions about what I want, and I keep saying, “I don’t care – it doesn’t have to be complicated. Just do what you want.” And yet she keeps. on. asking. And my sisters-in-law want to help, but I don’t know what to tell them to do, and I just don’t want to be involved at all, frankly. I want to show up the day of, smile and eat my slice of cake, and open gifts and smile some more, and later write thank you notes.
Today, after dealing with the guest list with my mom and sister-in-law on the phone, I made D mute the TV for a few minutes because my head was just so full of stress and noise that I couldn’t stand one more second of Weather Channel Cantore-Stories-When-Good-Storms-Go-Bad-type blathering, and I covered my face with a pillow because the light from the window was piercing straight through my eyeballs to the back of my head.
Then I took a nap, which helped a little. And I ate a piece of cake, which also helped.
Now it’s dinner time, and I just want a Taco Casa extra hot bean burrito with extra cheese, like I’ve consistently craved every day for the last month, but I don’t want to get dressed and drive all the way to town to get one, and I don’t even have any of the little frozen burritos I make do with most of the time. RArrraggghaharhrrrr
Sorry. I think I need to take a chill pill. Oh wait, that’s not allowed either, along with deli meat and my precious tuna. I did my household chore for the day – did a few of them, even got rid of a whole plastic bin’s worth of old clothes – but the accompanying zen feeling has already dissipated. (You may have noticed?)
What I want to know is how am I supposed to last THIRTEEN more weeks like this? I keep telling myself this has just been a bad few days. The real problem is probably, once again, just how miserably bored I am, because that makes everything seem much more intolerable. The 26th week was the slowest yet, I swear. I need something to take my mind off how much longer I can expect to be this, or more, uncomfortable. I thought about learning to make a quilt, but then there was too much equipment involved and I gave up.
Fortunately, there are a few things to look forward to in the immediate future. I’m getting a haircut Wednesday; and I’m going to the chiropractor Thursday, which I hope will ease my back ailments; and our new Tempur-Pedic mattress will be arriving any day now, which I hope will help with the sleep problems; and I’m going to see Broadway Across America’s Wizard of Oz on Saturday; and my sister should be moving home next week if the *#!+&@#$(#!* closing on her house doesn’t get pushed back for the third (or is it fourth?) time.
So for now I guess I’ll go warm up some soup, and try not to feel too sorry for myself when I have to old-lady-hobble into the kitchen to do it.
P.S. Don’t feel too sorry for D – between my whining and self-pity, I did squeeze in time to give him a pedicure.