I’m well into my third trimester. Bros, this is like the real deal part of pregnancy that every one warns you about. You think you’re tired at the beginning, then you somehow hit 34 weeks and suddenly you realize that you never knew what tired was before. And your hormones are so out of whack you have no idea whats even happening to your poor body. I mean, I literally cried at a dog food commercial the other day. And spent about 2 and half hours scrubbing a bathtub that our daughter will probably never ever touch.
Pregnancy makes you straight up crazy.
Don’t listen to Cameron Diaz, this is not 3rd trimester.
THIS is the real 3rd trimester. I’m keeping it real for you.
That face accurately depicts how I feel 83% of the time. The other 17% of the time I’m in a food coma.
I think it’s safe to say I’m at the point where pregnancy literally is a disability for me.
THIS is whats left of my field of vision of my feet/legs.
Also, yes. About 90% of the time I’m awake, there is a brownie/chips/bagel/bowl of ice cream resting on my enormous belly. Food is the only good part about being pregnant at this point. I can eat pretty much whatever I want and if someone tries to give me a hard time I just tell them Baby B needs it. No one can deny a baby anything.
I spend about 8 minutes every morning trying to figure out what way to position myself so I can put on jeans. Then about 3 minutes later, I regret the decision to even attempt to wear jeans and put on sweatpants or yoga pants instead. Or leggings. You try telling me that leggings aren’t pants at 34 weeks pregnant and I will verbally assault you. And possibly give you a swift kick to the ankle (usually I’d say swift kick to the knee, but honestly I don’t think thats physically possible for me at this point.)
I am physically exhausted. This tiny 5 pound child inside of me is LITERALLY sucking the life out of me and hoarding it for herself. The other day Big S asked me how I was feeling,
Big S: You doing okay?
Me: I’m fine, but I’m seriously going to just be exhausted every day until she’s born. So just don’t ask me how I’m doing anymore. I’m not going to be one of those people who complain about it every day (Lies. I totally am.)
Big S: Oh, babe. It’s okay. I’d be exhausted too if I had to carry around all that extra….
Me: OH MY GOD. YOU ARE NOT SERIOUSLY ABOUT TO TELL ME HOW MUCH WEIGHT I’VE PUT ON.
For the record, he claims he was about to say “all that extra belly”.
To which I say LIES! and with an over the top eye roll.
I get up to pee about 3 times an hour. I don’t know why my daughter insists on constantly pressing down on my bladder, but for some reason that’s her favorite resting spot in the womb. Sometimes I pee, wash my hands, sit down on the couch and then immediately have to pee again. Little S even knows if he’s looking for me, the first place to check is in the bathroom. Or in front of the fridge/pantry.
Also, Baby B has dropped and nestled herself right in between my hips. Which means every single time I waddle anywhere I’m constantly feeling like she’s about to literally fall out. Which I’d almost be okay with, because then I wouldn’t have to deal with labor. Oh, and the waddling, that’s not an exaggeration. I am literally WADDLING. Yesterday a bunch of little ducklings followed me home. THAT’S how bad I’m waddling.
Every time I sneeze, I pray I’m not about to pee my pants in the process. Amazingly I’ve made it thus far without doing so. But EVERY time I feel a sneeze coming on I have a brief moment of panic where I think “Oh no! I’m going to SERIOUSLY pee my pants in front of my preschool kids” Then I think, whatever, like 40% of them have peed their pants in front of me. And half the kids who have peed their pants, I’m pretty sure they did it on purpose.
I’ve started nesting, so I feel the urge to prep everything for the baby. Which lead to me cleaning our bathroom for like 5 hours. I scrubbed our bathtub for almost 2 hours and started crying and then Big S comes in and is like, “Seriously? Stop. She’s not going to be sleeping in the tub. Relax.”
Every morning now, I have to set my alarm about 15 minutes earlier than I usually would. Because that’s how long it takes me to get out of bed in the morning. And not because I’m tired. But because I literally have to build up momentum to get out of bed. I’ll be laying on my side and I have to psych myself up, like, “ALRIGHT! LETS DO THIS!” then slowly I have to rock my hips back and forth until I can either grab onto something to pull me up or Big S can push me out of bed. It’s probably the most pathetic thing anyone could ever witness. I feel like beached whale that requires about 14 Seaworld employees to move it back to it’s home. Except my home isn’t in the ocean. It’s in front of the fridge full of ice cream.
Oh Raelyn, just 2 more weeks til I start seriously considering how to give you an eviction notice. I want my body back.