I am officially done with being pregnant.
D-O-N-E.
Technically I still have 6 weeks to go but for mental health purposes I am calling myself done and allowing myself to become the disgruntled, large, and very uncomfortable pregnant woman.
At this point, you start to get urges. Aside from the very, very, very frequent urge to urinate (didn’t I just go?) or urge to coax the baby out (I know you can hear me in there, I’ll buy you anything you want for the next two years if you just GET OUT already), you get the urge to just start speaking and acting out your mind (which in my case could be a very dangerous thing). I walked into the dog park the other day when I heard this:
Well, there’s no question now, you look very, very pregnant.
Right then, I had the urge to slap the woman and tell her to shut her piehole.
Up until this point, I’ve been good. I’ve put up a good fight. Telling people I FEEL GREAT (extra emphasis on great). Trying to stay positive. And then it turned into summer. Summer is hot. A friend told me that her mother got through pregnancy in the summer by laying in a lounge chair, eating ice chips and scratching her belly. When I heard that, I thought to myself oh my god is that going to be me?
I’ve been thinking that filling my jog bra with some ice chips every time I pass the freezer is the best idea I’ve had in a long time.
I was feeling GREAT until about a week ago. That would be the point at which every time I went to the bathroom (roughly every 20 minutes), I felt like I might also poop the baby out. Maybe he is starting his descent into my pelvis. Maybe I need to lay off the flax seed. Maybe I literally will be the first woman ever to shit a baby out.
Honestly, I still feel mostly good (as good as you can feel when you’ve added nearly 30 percent of your starting body weight) but I’d just like to be done. I’m getting bored. Books warned me about this. A sense of boredom with the pregnancy. I know that life will get very “un”boring very soon here and I’m not saying I want to be up all night with a small mammal attached to my boob but…you also get this sense of … put me in coach, I’m ready. I can’t wait any more. We have everything we need, everything we don’t need and if I have to go to BuyBuyBaby one more time to look for things I still might need but don’t have I just might go monkey shit in the stroller section.
Tick tock.
I know what you’re thinking: hang in there, the end is near. But that’s like telling someone at mile 18 of the Ironman marathon you’re almost there.
LIES.
No, I’m not. I still have 8 miles to go. Sure I’ve already gone 132 miles but these last 8 miles are going to tick along painfully slow. The same with pregnancy. A brave and honest woman actually told me the other day that the last 4 weeks are the worst. They go by really, really slow.
Thank you for not bullshitting me.
It just occurred to me that somewhere in the next few weeks I will pass the Ironman mark in weight. I have now gained 30 pounds, putting me at … drumroll … 138 pounds. I’m willing to accept bets on when I pass the 140.2 mark.
I’m also willing to eat ice cream until that happens in order to cool my core temperature down.
Someone asked me how I was sleeping. Not at all. I know I’m in bed and the lights are out but I’m not sleeping. I’m just closing my eyes between being awake at 12:41 am, 3:41 am, 4:54 am for no reason at all. Sometimes I have to pee. Sometimes I’m hot. Pretty much that can sum up the way I feel: I’ve got to pee and I’m hot.
You think I’m exaggerating. Just wait…you’ll see.
Exactly 6 weeks from two days ago, on July 28th, Max is due to arrive. I’ve decided that for the sake of just being pregnant and grateful, I will prohibit myself from being miserable (remember, right now I’m just disgruntled) until…July 29th. If he does not make his exit on time, I am allowed to throw myself into full misery and eat nothing but ice cream until he comes.
I’ve heard that many first-time mothers deliver late so I might as well start stocking my freezer now.
I thought maybe I was alone in the way I was feeling. I mean, isn’t every other pregnant woman out there just head over heels giddy about the whole thing and loving life large and walking around in a cute matching maternity ensemble that looks frickin’ amazing with her adorable painted toenails and perfectly styled hair?
The answer is…no.
A very pregnant friend posted something on my Facebook wall today.
Over.It.
Agreed.
I’m still working out. Unless I am chained to my bed, it’s safe to say I will be working out every day until I give birth. At this point, the object in motion will stay in motion. As a pregnant woman, you want to be in motion. Sloth feels like hell. Don’t give in to it. Some days I have freakish energy, perhaps this is nesting, and rather than cleaning out a closet (they’re all clean), I channel that energy into a workout. I’ve been doing two workouts a day through most of pregnancy (as long as your doctor hasn’t restricted your activity, don’t be afraid of the double) and I’m still doing that or making my one workout longer.
I’ve been walking some long walks of 2 hours or so. I find the hilliest course I can and just walk out and back. Oddly, the time passes much quicker walking than it ever did running. I also take a lot of leisurely walks with Chris. I have a crazy theory that if I can walk as much as I used to run in a week, I will transition better back to running.
Though I also sense that my first run back will feel like death.
And as for running, I actually did string together 30 minutes of running the other day as 2 minutes walking, 2 minutes running. I brought Boss along and wish I had a picture of myself (large) running with Boss (very small). He lasted 18 minutes before he laid down and protested. Who knew my 15-minute per mile pace would shut him down.
Biking has been going well. I’m still on the path riding my mountain bike with NO BASKET OR LITTLE DOG thankyouverymuch. I will say that my biggest risk on the path is dogs on retractable leashes. Complete hazard. Almost clotheslined myself with one the other day. Another hazard – small children on bikes. They ride like they’re drunk and chances are they can’t see because their helmet is covering their eyes. Approach with caution.
I’ve been swimming more because it’s open water season! I used the wetsuit once but didn’t so much enjoy it. It is possible to be too buoyant. When I found myself swimming along and kicking on top of the water in air, I knew that next time I would not be wearing a wetsuit.
Strength training continues, too. Bosu, TRX, weights. Lots of glute strength, pelvic exercises and of course – arms. All I want is to maintain some semblance of definition in my arms since everything else seems to have been swallowed up by baby fat and water retention.
Wait, can you retain water in your arms?
I’d like to think my belly is so big because I’m retaining water in there. But I think I’m just retaining baby. Here is the latest belly shot.
Trust me, I’m as tired of hauling that belly around as you are of looking at it. The belly has literally exploded in baby. By now, the books say that Max is 5 pounds and 18 inches long. 5 pounds. I look around my house for other things that weigh 5 pounds and find a bag of unopened whole wheat flour.
That entire bag is in my belly, I think to myself. Along with 2 extra pounds of blood, 2 pounds of boob, 1.5 pounds of womb, 7 pounds of fat, 1.5 pounds of placenta, 2 pounds of amniotic fluid and 4 pounds of retained water.
I’d like to argue that last value as grossly underestimated.
Someone shout it at me, you’re almost there! Clap a little for me and ring a cowbell, please? I know it’s a short way to go but it feels like eternity. I looked at my belly tonight and thought – really, how much bigger CAN it get?
(enter the thoughts of over a dozen once pregnant women who are reading this and thinking sister you haven’t seen big yet)
Like a pregnant friend said, I can do anything for 6 weeks. No, really, I can. Waiting these next 6 weeks can’t be any worse than finding yourself at mile 80 of a 112 mile ride riding into a 20 mph headwind, watching your baggie of salt tabs take flight out of your hand, breaking up with your bike seat and shortly thereafter getting stung by a bee in your helmet. Sooner than later, I’ll be crossing the transition mat and starting the run.
Which will last for the next 18 years of my life!
I’m gonna need more cowbell.
