A post-race beer is needed

I knew the time would come where I'm just consistently over pregnancy discomfort and ready to done, I just didn't expect it to hit as early as it has, while I still have more than six weeks to go.

The last week has been a rough one -- mostly mentally, but significantly physically, as well. When I woke up Saturday morning, I just stayed in bed and cried for a while. Nothing dramatic. I didn't even need to talk about it. I just... cried. Until I stopped. I'd slept so terribly and woke up with shooting carpal tunnel pains down both arms. Our bed suddenly feels monumentally small, and I can't sprawl out or get comfortable in any way. Bedtime, as I've said before, has become awful.

So Saturday afternoon I napped and spent money. 

Look, don't judge me. It's amazing how a few items of comfortable clothing in preparation for baby's arrival can turn an entire perspective around. I just needed a little damn self care. In the form of naps and new things. 

The amount of hard work it takes to grow a human being with your own body is astounding, and I don't know that I ever understood that. I am, admittedly, not great at it. I mean, sure, he's healthy and growing just fine (as far as we know), but me, physically and emotionally, nah. This is hard work.

All I really want to be doing right now is resting. I haven't run in two-and-a-half weeks. Although, to my credit, I'm still trying to keep up with a semi-regular strength routine. But I continue to live in fear that somehow in the next six or so weeks I'll pack on another 30 pounds. Is that even physically possible? This can't happen, can it? 

I feel guilty for not moving. For not trying to move. I feel nervous about my body because of it. It's really no different than when I can't run while not pregnant. My first fear becomes the detriment to my body. So yes, that continues to be a thing. 

I feel gross. I see my reflection, and I just see body. All of it. The uncomfortable way my thighs touch, how I can no longer wear anything other than these hideous Oofos flip-flops because the tendons in my feet hurt otherwise. My hair just hangs. My clothes feel dowdy. I'm self conscious as I walk through downtown after work like an overweight human factory while everyone else is enjoying their bodies and being gorgeous. I'm puffy and excessively warm at all times.

Fuck living in this city, honestly. I miss living in Oregon, where makeup isn't a requirement. Everyone lives comfortably in their hats and unkempt hair. Outdoor gear and running clothing are normal, everyday apparel. It's okay to be comfortable in your own skin without having to try. Hell, even living in Madison didn't feel this difficult. I'd be able to walk around my city without realizing my husband is regularly surrounded by supermodels with precious and quirky hobbies and jobs and adorably pre-planned and heavily filtered Instagram accounts with perfect hair, nerdy-but-chic glasses, and Anthropologie wardrobes. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Perfectly sized and decorated like a hipster's dream.

So, in case you haven't noticed, the theme here is I MISS FEELING GOOD. Feeling pretty. Feeling fit. Feeling like myself. I mean, it's no secret that even without pregnancy, I struggle with insecurity and being self-conscious (CLEARLY), but this is that on steroids. I will never be a hipster's dream. And I will still always be most comfortable in hats and running clothes, but goddamn, if I could at least just feel good while doing so again.

Also if I could just run again. We've been hit with a wave of fall temperatures this week, and I am mourning the loss of running pretty hard. 

Baby, himself, seems to be just fine. Still tumbling around, although recently the movements have become actually uncomfortable, rather than just simply strange. Lots of pressure on my pelvis and awkward jabs into my side. Much more slow rolling, which still tends to make me feel a little woozy every time. After my last OB visit, my doctor took a wild guess at him being a big baby, though I know that's all it is -- a wild guess. But based on how full of baby I feel, and how much his movements overtake my entire midsection, I lean toward believing it. 

I feel guilty for struggling, though. I feel bad for really not enjoying much about what's happening to my body. The discomforts are uncomfortable, the lack of sleep is hard. I hope he can't feel that. Am I a shitty mother already if I weep away the next seven weeks? It's not that I don't necessarily feel connected to this pregnancy, it's just that I think I'll enjoy it much more when it's over and the tangible gift of an actual baby is here, rather than the idea of one. It's hard for me to grasp the concept that the baby growing inside of me will very soon become the most cherished thing I've ever created or been a part of. I know that to be true, but at present I just feel tired.

I've read and been told to expect this. That pregnancy hormones will make a comeback near the end with a vengeance. I'm not truly miserable all of the time, I'm just... ready. And truthfully, I even feel ready for delivery day. I don't feel scared. I feel weirdly confident. Sure, it may end up a messy, painful living nightmare at the time, but I do still trust my body to do what it needs to do. Whatever that is. However it is. Whatever measures it takes. 

This really is like training for a marathon. You start weak and scared, hesitant about your lofty goals. It takes some time to work out the kinks. You sail through a few months of solid training. Good runs, bad runs, confidence boosters and failures that leave you in tears. But the training is working. However, in the final few weeks, fear comes back. Doubt. Your running feels less smooth. You worry about every nagging sensation in your body. I visualize race day and know I can do it, but it still feels impossibly far away. And the effort to get there is daunting. I don't want to run another 20 miles this weekend. Next week's speed workout is giving me nightmares already. Always doubting the body that has trained and prepared and is ready for race day. I just want that finish line and that medal and the appropriate finish time on my watch. 

AND THEN IT HAPPENS. Nothing but pure bliss and every confidence in the world when it does. 

AND A GODDAMN BEER. 

You guys, I'm ready for my finish line beer.

Can you tell?

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