I ran into a friend in the commuter parking lot this morning, and we walked the four blocks to our respective offices together. She cheered me on for still making the walk into the office.
"You're still making that walk!"
It occurred to me that I am still making that walk every day, twice a day, and that it's now the only real cardio exercise I get anymore. And every day when I park my Jeep with four blocks of walking ahead of me, I sigh before opening the door and crawling out. As soon as I step out I have to pee and my pelvis reminds me it exists.
HEY BUDDY! THANKS FOR THE SHOOTING REMINDER!
But as we talked during our walk, she made a good point: pregnancy really is shitty. All things considered, my experience has been pretty run-of-the-mill and "healthy," and I wonder if I'm ungrateful. If I'm supposed to be feeling something else. She told me it's okay to feel shitty about pregnancy because pregnancy is shitty. It doesn't make the end result any less perfect and welcomed and anticipated.
I feel as though I've been pardoned.
With a month left to go (oh my god), I find myself trapped between wild impatience and a sense of panic because in thirty-some days, I need to be able to mom. What is currently inside wreaking havoc on my comfort will be outside with needs. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think incessant snuggles and protecting him from the outside world by strapping him to my body with a Moby wrap count as fulfillment of those life-sustaining needs. I can't keep him alive by loving him and smooching his face and dressing him in one of the 9,362 newborn onesies overtaking his closet.
I know it'll be fine, obviously, but it reminds me of the sense of GREAT RESPONSIBILITY when I brought Luna home and realized I was now responsible for a dog's life. Except now it's a human being. And yes I sure did just compare the care of a dog to the care of a baby, haters. Point is, I am responsible for a life that is not mine. But for the record, Luna is just fine and is the best dog of all time, SO I GUESS I AM OKAY AT IT.
Which brings me to my next unrelated topic. It was recently brought to my attention that not all pregnancies are perfect and it isn't easy to have a healthy baby, and some children are wheelchair-stricken for life or have other such chronic health issues, and why don't I write about those outcomes?
To which I say: take a long walk off a short pier.
First, who says these things to a woman weeks away from birthing her first child with still no guarantee of a "perfect" pregnancy or "healthy" baby?
Second, eat dirt.
I am not here on a pregnancy pedestal. I am not here championing for all women with occupied wombs. I am not here recounting the experiences of every birth. I am not here pretending to know what the fuck I'm actually doing. I am not here to make every pregnant woman or every mother feel included. I am not here with "a message." My blog is not a platform for the greater good of childbirth. I am not seeking a specific audience. I am not worried that your pregnancy experience did not match mine. I am not worried that you're not even a mother or that you don't give a shit about my pregnancy.
I am just here in my corner of the internet typing drivel about my pregnancy experience.
Write that down.
For me to use my blog as a platform to write about a very serious and very personal experience I HAVE NOT HAD (or hope to have, to be honest) would be such bullshit. I am not an asshole (usually). I am not an expert. And I am not your mouthpiece. I'm just a mouthy sometimes-asshole that has a lot to say about what I know.
And one thing I know is right now I don't have a whole lot of patience, in case you haven't noticed.
Also, I am documenting this journey in detail so after enough time has passed and I think, "Babies are neat, let's do this again," I can remember, SPECIFICALLY, what I will be getting myself into, and think LONG AND HARD about those repercussions. TAKE NO CHANCES.
But then our baby will be so blindingly awesome that I'll be like OF COURSE I WANT ANOTHER HIM, and I need ALL OF YOU TO REMIND ME OF MY LAST SEVEN BLOG POSTS.
So. Just so we're clear. I'm not here to tell anyone's story but my own. And to use a phrase I 100 percent despise with every molecule in my soul, SORRY, I AM NOT SORRY.
Whew, that got intense.
So anyway. I'm still pregnant and I can't feel my fingers anymore and my knuckles have taken to sporadically locking up and my inside body is beginning to do weird things and create sharp pains in places that remind me it's about to have a baby.
I truly no longer sleep. It almost brings me to desperate tears to think about the night. But then I walk into the nursery and realize this is truly almost over and I can't even fathom the overwhelming feelings -- both physically and emotionally -- that are going to envelope me.
I can't imagine myself in labor. I can't imagine myself enduring all of labor with Todd doing his best to keep me from losing my shit (literally and figuratively). I cannot imagine holding this baby who was once a terrifying and overwhelming pink line on an unexpected pregnancy test (or seven) on a cold March day. I can't imagine announcing him to our world. Calling him by his name. Looking at him and realizing WE MADE THAT.
I can't believe I made a person, you guys.
I can't imagine waiting another five weeks to meet him.
No seriously. It's too many weeks.