I forgot that being THIS pregnant means…
I suffer from a very active pregnant brain. I wish I was making it up that I put liquid dish soap in the dishwasher and lathered my hair with body wash. It sounds straight out of some cheesy sitcom, but alas, it’s my pregnant brain reality. Nothing makes a girl feel like an idiot as trying to bail out 10,000 bubbles from the bottom of her dishwasher. Bubbles are all fun and games until you find them all over your kitchen floor.
I have a bad case of the grumpies. As my husband politely asked me to stop being grumpy the other evening, I felt exposed. What? I mean I knew I was a grumpasaurus, but I thought I was keeping all my grump to myself. Busted. It made me grumpy. Surprise, surprise.
I feel too much. See grumpies above but also, everything is a hot mess of feelings right now. I am a total loony as I swing from laughter, to annoyed, to happy in the space of thirty minutes. I can cry at any given moment. Don’t test me because that juice is da truth. Would the crazy lady now possessing my body please leave post haste?
I am uncomfortable. Somehow I erased the part where it gets downright Olympic sport hard to carry around a tiny human all day. Sure, sure Olympians are all sorts of heroic by setting world record paces for the 100-meter dash, but has anyone asked them to do it while chasing after a lightning fast toddler and a belly full of baby? I rest my case.
I no longer move gracefully. There’s a lot of moaning and groaning as I roll around in bed. That came out wrong. You know what I mean. Basically, I’ve turned into the tennis player who can only serve the ball if they let out a intimidating grunt. I can only move now if accompanied by a serious groan.
I no longer enjoy getting dressed. I channel my inner Santa Claus as I lock and load the belly into its expando waistband each morning. I live the movie Mean Girls every time I tell people, “These sweatpants are all that fits me right now.” My memory now recalls how I wanted to burn the two shirts that still fit by the time I was done being pregnant. I hated the sight of those clothes. If anyone asks, they met their demise gracefully.
I now notice people look at my belly first, my face second. To all the girls who get their boobs checked out first, face second, I feel ya. I’m a person too by dangit. Look me in the eyes.
I am officially subject to people’s commentary. To the man who couldn’t believe I was 7 months pregnant and told me “your womb must go down to my leg,” I could kiss you on your awkwardly spouting compliments mouth. To the 40-year-old man who openly leered at me at the airport and said aloud “I loooove a pregnant belly,” please keep your fetishes to yourself. I know you apologized and said you didn’t mean to say it out loud, but somehow it made it worse, not better. To all the people be gawking when I walk into a room now or using the terminology “huge, big, bigger,” can we please not? Just talk about my giant belly behind my back like respectable folks do. Also, it would really help my grumpies.
Somehow I forgot all of these factoids from my first pregnancy. While the tapes most definitely have not erased from labor, the third trimester is catching me by surprise. I’m remembering now though you sneaky little devil. You’re the trimester where everyday I’m doublin’ and literally, the baby triples in size. I love you third trimester, not because you’re easy, but because you’re over soon.Add a Comment