Third trimester: "It's only going to get worse"

"Oh honey, it's only going to get worse." 

My doctor told me that during my recent visit when I griped about the raging heartburn and carpal tunnel. She followed it up with prescription drugs for my heartburn. I love my doctor. 


I've heard that regularly since this journey began. 

Your heartburn will get worse. Your carpal tunnel will get worse. You'll get more uncomfortable. Your clothes will get more uncomfortable. Your body will get more swollen. Your belly will get bigger. Your boobs will hurt more. Your sleep will get worse. Your running will get harder. Your pelvis will hurt more. Your vagina will break. You won't get any sleep. Your kid will keep you up forever. You won't sleep for 18 years. You'll lose your free time. You won't have time to run. You won't have time to shower. You won't shower. You'll never pee with the door closed again. You will hate your husband. You will be exhausted. You will struggle to feed your kid, care for your kid, and keep the house in order. Daycare will put you in the poor house. Just wait until you have to drop him off at daycare for the first time. Just wait, just wait, just wait. IT WILL GET WORSE. 

Holy shit, you guys. What?

Can I just float through the next couple months blissfully unaware? Perhaps avoiding the horror stories of how childbearing ruins a woman's life? I'm already stressed about the entire five minutes I get off of work after he's born. And where the hell I'll pump in the office once I go back to work, assuming I even know what the hell I'm doing. 

Can everyone and everything just start lying to me about it? 

Cool, thanks.

I'm FINALLY in the third trimester this week. Eleven more weeks sounds like goddamn eternity, especially with the understanding that IT'S ONLY GOING TO GET WORSE. I'm now up 25 total pounds in 28 weeks of pregnancy and there are numbers on the scale I've never seen in my life, my running shorts are beginning to get mildly snug and uncomfortable, and my thighs rub together with frequency. I don't like any of this. I don't care that it's vain. I just... don't... care.

I think I've officially -- and already -- reached the "I just don't care" portion of this pregnancy. I've stopped blow-drying my hair each morning, so I perpetually look like a wet, ragged dog. It's so fucking hot outside and inside that showering is pointless, but I do it anyway for integrity's sake. My boobs occasionally leak while I sleep, I sleep in WRIST BRACES, and I look like complete pregnant shit 96 percent of every day. I don't even know where that 4 percent is. I'm uncomfortably full after every meal, often skipping dinner because I JUST CAN'T. I barely wear my wedding ring anymore because IT IS HOT AND MY FINGERS ARE TOO SWOLLEN. So, I got a good 50 days out of that thing before it has to be tucked away for another few months, like my body and my delicious beer and my sleep and my running.

My baby shower is in a few weeks and what if no one comes? What if it's me, my mom and sister, my best friend, an empty nursery, and lots of food? There are 105 things on our baby registries, which means we have 11 weeks to buy 105 THINGS. Why don't babies just come equipped with strollers and car seats and nurseries and shit? Well, I guess technically they do come equipped with shit, but we are going to need something to put that shit in. We spent 25 minutes hemming and hawing over the purchase of a rocking chair over the weekend. At this rate, our kid will be at least 22 by the time he gets a stroller. 

And by then we'll also be paying for college. 


Someone just deliver to me my baby so I can hold him and snuggle him and love him and understand why all of this is worthwhile. I know he's in there, and I know he's precious, but otherwise right now I'm staring at a bulbous belly with a sore pelvis and half my normal life, wondering why men don't have to do this shit. 

I am tired. I am simply antsy to meet him. That said, pretty please continue to incubate for several more weeks, baby. Like, 11 of them. I would like you to be fully-cooked and healthy when I finally get to smoosh your cheeks and your leg rolls and smell your bald baby head and forget the last nine months of discomfort. Well, technically seven months, since I didn't even know you were happening for the first two. I am glad my body is here for you and that it's nourishing you into a full baby person, but I won't be mad at all once you give it back to me. 

So here we are, third trimester. You and me for 11 more weeks. The good news is that's at least 11 more weeks of spewing these words on the internet. Because, surely, once baby is here I will no longer be a human being that is any resemblance to my former self and I'll have no time for words. 

Just kidding. What is it they say? Write while the baby sleeps? Or is that sleep while the baby sleeps? Or is it sleep when you're dead? Write when you're dead? Just be dead? I don't even know, just give me this baby and a laptop, it's fine. 

Oh, and the 105 other things we need.