My waddle has changed. The gentleman at the laundromat told me so. He seems concerned with the size of my belly and distracted by the painful dance I display while walking up to retrieve my bags.
“No, my baby is not due this month,” I politely tell him. He wants to know if I am sure about that. I want him to know that he can’t blame his particular brand of waddle on pregnancy. I only think this, of course. Because being called a bitch the same day you are told your waddle needs a fixin’, is just not how I want to start my third trimester.
And it’s finally here. That occasionally charming, quite worrisome, eternally achy LAST trimester. The one made of butterflies and cotton candy and larger shits. Er, something like that.
Before I get too far into my latest ramble, please please please understand that I am so very grateful to be here again. Swear it. I pray every day for this pregnancy to keep on keeping on and for that babe to stay inside and cook for as long as she can. But. BUT! Lately, I am just feeling a wee bit tired and…
My feet hurt. All the time. And my back. And if I really think about it, my index finger hasn’t felt quite right in like a week or so. My eye twitches when it rains or someone refers to it being “Crocs season”. Or blueberry pancakes are mentioned in any context. Also, you should know, that the cool tweens in the park make fun of me… I am 82% sure of it. And I’ve forgotten how to whistle (may or may not be pregnancy related). If I can find something else to complain about, trust me, I’ll let you know and I’ll expect a certain about of sympathy and/or gifts.
My apologizes. I’m just so tired. And still pregnant. And concerned about my finger.
Every pregnancy is different. Got it. I’ve been told this enough to know that people are only pretending not to notice my swollen ankles or wonder how appropriate my skin tight maxi dress is (the better to show the bump, my dear).
But this pregnancy was so much uglier from my last. The nausea has settled in and taken board, the aches are making me a terrible brunch partner, and chasing a toddler around sounded so much more fun when he didn’t know how to walk yet.
The one consistent thing for both pregnancies is the steady weight gain. I am creeping up to that boastful “50” once again. And honestly, not to be a rude American, but I expected more from a city that requires me to walk a mile to and from my son’s daycare every freaking day. Shouldn’t I be fit and perky? Like that pretty dutch mom I pretend to understand.
Funny thing is, I thoroughly enjoy being pregnant (most days). I really do. Despite my complaints and longing for all the beer. When I was pregnant for my son, I even felt kind of cute. Appropriately documented by my constant IG bump selfie feed. And right up until that very last week, when things really started getting interesting, I had energy to spare and a sass to my waddle.
My best friend gained 25 lbs for her first pregnancy. Some chick on facebook only gained 30. And my baby manuel stated that if you are heading to 40… you should go sit and think about what you’ve done in a quiet corner.
So, when I reached 50 lbs the week before giving birth to the handsome one, I felt like a failure. I had been steadily gaining weight since the husband knocked me up, but my doctor (bless her heart) never seemed worried. My mom gained between 50-60 lbs for every single one of her pregnancies so… it’s not really my fault — I like to blame things on genetics, you see.
Some days I actually feel super and hardly feel the extra weight. I have energy and my belly button isn’t quite showing through my shirt and my boobs haven’t given up for the day.
But sometimes, just sometimes, when I cross my legs, something feels off. I strain to keep them in place but without my permission, they slowly slip apart and remain distant from each other. It’s like twin chicks pretending to be civil for their mom’s sake, but the intimacy is killing them. They want nothing to do with each other. They have both said things they will regret. Things might never be the same. And is it just me or did that escalate quickly?
You’ve met pregnancy brain, right? See above for more information. Moving on…
I am a healthy person in general. I love to be outside. I maintain a healthy weight when I am not carrying a bundle. And I eat extremely well; craving vegetables and fruit more than chocolate and other petty sins.
So, if I am heading towards that 50 mark again, and I know that me and the babe are still healthy and happy, well, I will just embrace the heck out of these last few months and show off that awkward new waddle all over this town. Truth is, I am utterly in love with every single bad moment in this pregnancy, and that includes every single pound — because they are a part of me, of my babe, of this entire motherhood journey. Dimply as they may be.
And yeh, some days it’s harder to hold that full weight, some days she is just heavier — but some gorgeous days they make me feel stronger and more beautiful. And I know, because I have been down this road before, that I’ll miss this time. I mean, not the vomiting, shortness of breath, and freaking sciatic nerve drama (why are you even here!?), but I will miss the growing evidence and feeling of my body creating a work of art. My bump. My 50 lbs of extra love (and a few donuts). My Evelyn.