Tuesday, April 1st, 2014
Each month in Parents, we print the 27 truest words about parenting from our favorite bloggers. Our May issue features a quote from Deanna Smith at Everything and Nothing from Essex. Read her full blog post below.
There’s something about the end of a pregnancy that turns every minute into an hour. Every hour into two. And every day into a continuous stretch of unending hours.
Yes, we all know those women who gracefully glide to that last day of pregnancy at 42 weeks and bemoan the fact that they will soon no longer be pregnant. They rub the large belly and proclaim every second of this miracle to be among the best moments of their lives. They are sad to deliver. Sad to give up this experience. Rainbow, unicorns, and glittery mucus plug and all. I try very hard not to hate these people. Because I know a lot of them personally- and they are wonderful people. I like to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume that they aren’t lying through swollen teeth…(the last body part to give into to the pregnancy swell FYI…OK I made that up.)
They used to say that once you reached 37 weeks you were home free. YAY full term! Now they’re saying that 37 weeks this is EARLY term, and you shouldn’t try to will out the interloper from your body-held-hostage until at least 39 weeks. I can only assume that this research was done by a man.
For me there’s always a point of crossing over from sane this-isn’t-so-bad-I’m-still-a-semi-sweet pregnant person and evil, insane, my-husband-goes-into-labor-hating-me pregnant person somewhere between that magical 37 week full term moment and 39 OK-to-deliver moment.
It’s not that I’m so happy to go through the labor experience again. No. No, no, no. In fact, as I remember explicit details from previous labors, I pull a Rachel from Friends as I say “I don’t want to do this. How do I get out of it?” as I hold my fully grown belly in front of me and vow that if my husband doesn’t stay awake for the entirety of labor this time — body parts WILL be cut off.
My body begins to perform unspeakable acts weeks before the actual GO time. But they are exactly that –“unspeakable”. When I see others posting in extreme detail about their mucus plug and discharge and bowel movements to signal that labor might possibly be coming I completely judge them for the grossness of their over sharing…while my head is in the sink discharging the vomit that occurs every time I see or hear the phrase “mucus plug”. Seriously. That phrase should be illegal. Mucus plug mucus plug mucus plug. Oh wait — my tongue just fell off.
I think about everyone knowing what I will be doing soon — exactly what I will be doing as my body swells to maximum capacity as the tape worm inside of me sucks up every last bit of my will to live. All of that delightful nutriance goes straight to the little sucker’s head, of course. Being an immensely private person, I hate that everyone knows. No matter how tightly I cling — there is no dignity in this all.
Having done this twice before (exactly on 39 weeks both times), I know that the loss of dignity and complete insanity is worth it. Definitely worth it. But part of the “insanity” bit is that my mind is refusing to wrap itself around that fact right now. REFUSING.
I don’t understand why I can’t just blink and get to the happily ever after part where I am holding this new little person who has come to bless our lives. Because I am soooo thankful and appreciative of that part of this all.
Someone asked on Facebook the other day that I should let them know if I needed anything! I barely restrained myself from replying that I really needed a hip replacement — could they oblige? Because of course my sciatica had to give out like yesterday and make walking a near impossibility. This does not go over well when my main occupation is chasing toddlers. They seize the opportunity and run that much faster — taunting me with their mobility and the fact that I turned into a 95 year old overnight.
I type this as I sit on a bag of frozen peas in a darkened house. I am supposed to be sleeping. There is near magical silence coming from the tots’ rooms, and my tired body needs rest. And yet the aches and pains and the fact that I can’t just sleep on my flippin’ back for the umpteen month in the row is doing me in. Seriously. Just. Want. To. Sleep. On. My. Back.
I try to remember how this all went down the last few times. With my first pregnancy I jumped at every cramp and twinge. THIS WAS IT! It wasn’t. With my second pregnancy I was so much wiser. But eager for the big day — I still jumped at every cramp and twinge. THIS IS IT! This third pregnancy, I was awake most of the night last night with horrible cramps and twinges. This is NOT it — I reminded myself. No doubt I won’t feel comfortable going in this time until this baby is crowning on my living room floor. (Note to self: vacuum the living room tomorrow. No one wants to give birth on a bed of crushed Cheerios.)
They say my body is made for this. You know what else my body is made for? Sleeping through the night (or at least while your children are sleeping). Running after the children I already have. Finishing making dinner without having to drag a leg alongside me as I scuttle from counter to counter. Getting off this bag of frozen peas without having to scream my husband’s name for assistance in pulling me up. (Did I say scream? Eh…why lie?)
So to sum up, I LOVE being pregnant and every second has been the most wonderful experience of my life! I will be so sad to finally deliver and give up my baby bump! What do you mean…mixed messages?
I am 38 weeks pregnant. I could have the baby today. I could have the baby in 4ish weeks (heads will roll). My husband says I need to wait at least another week so he can finish up his landscaping season. Suspiciously, this lines up with the 39 week mark also advised by that suspected male promoting torturous living by suggesting that 37 weeks is no longer “full term”.
I just want to meet my baby. Also — I want my body back. Selfish? You bet. But reaching a magical breaking point from happily pregnant to completely insane and cranky has made “selfish” seem like a nice, sweet word. The new bad word around town? “Patience.” Worst word ever.
When I grow up, I’m not going to get pregnant — ever. I hear those last few weeks are brutal. And I am a wimp. In junior high I had a pet rock. That worked out pretty well for me. Hindsight is 20/20.
If one more person tells me to “Hang in there sweetie” with a smile full of pity, an all-knowing raised eyebrow, and well-rested eyes that clearly slept excellently the night before — I WILL throw my pet rock at them. Not cool, world. Not cool.
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