I’m not done being pregnant. I’ll be 32 weeks (the doctor’s first magic you-have-to-stay-pregnant-until-number when I started contracting at 22 weeks; the more preferred magic number being 36 weeks, since no one thinks The Kid will stay in there until 40 weeks) on Monday, so I’m really just getting started in this whole Third Trimester thing. I realize it is best for The Kid to cook a little longer, especially where his lungs and brain and eyes are concerned. Knowing this does not make my current experience any more fun. Friends with babies or toddlers or preschoolers keep telling me it gets worse, that weeks 36-40 are going to be miserable and hey! weeks 32-26 aren’t really a picnic either.
So I’m feeling whiny, and depressed, and tired of this whole thing. Because seriously? If this keeps getting worse? I can see why you hit a point where pushing the 9-lb bowling ball out of your previously unassaulted hoo-ha becomes the BETTER option.
Swelling sucks. My toes look like Vienna sausages (sausages in sad need of a pedicure, by the way) and my feet and ankles, while not quite at the elephant-legs stage, are terribly red and puffy. Like after you get a really horrible sunburn (not that I ever got sunburned, since I’m responsible with my sunscreen and I’m not the palest freckled kid ever…..ha!) and your skin is just SCREAMING from being stretched around your ridiculously edematous appendages. Now, swollen feet and ankles are a common pregnancy complaint, that you sort of consider in that tongue-in-cheek “that will never happen to me” way that all cute, lithe, not-yet-27-pounds-heavier people do in their first trimesters. God, was I arrogant!
But swollen hands? and fingers? I was not expecting. I woke up in the middle of the night with hands that felt about to burst, and the only thing that seemed reasonable in my exhausted, painful brain was to plunge them into a sinkful of cold water. (Yes, it helped the hands, but created the new problem of giving me the major urge to pee. Right then. So I had to rush over to the toilet with dripping hands, and pee, and then figure out how to wipe when wet hands + dry toilet paper = a mess. But I got it all worked out, and did a few more minutes of Cold Water Hand Swelling Therapy and then fell back into bed.)
Speaking of which, I can NOT sleep. I do have a bottle of Ambien by my bed, but I’m terrified of turning into one of those poor addicted women on Dr. Phil who started out taking a medication that was justified and ended up popping pills from Canadian pharmacies and driving around town with their kids in the car while hopped up on the Crazy Stuff. So. I don’t take the Ambien every night, and I took it on Thursday night so I couldn’t take it on Friday night, and as a result I got a crappy night’s sleep, punctuated by the throbbing fluid-filled hands and the tingling, numb hips. Totally popping my pills tonight, by the way, fluid and tingling be damned.
The worst part is, The Husband is out of town so I can’t even yell at him about how bloody uncomfortable I am and how it’s not fair that all he had to do was donate a few sperm out of the MILLIONS he makes brand-new every day but I have to handle magenta stretch marks that are threatening to take over my entire torso, swelling like a giant elephant, sleeplessness, and back pain just so His Royal Highness can have an heir!!!
(I didn’t mean it. That’s my hormones talking, I’m really very happy to be pregnant and I wanted this baby as much as, if not more than, my husband did when The Kid was just a possibility to be discussed, and I know that all these troubles are temporary and it will All Be Worth It One Day, etc etc. But damn it, my skin hurts and I’ve never seen feet this red and my shoes don’t fit and I’m going to be such a freakin’ stereotype if I spend the next eight weeks literally Barefoot and Pregnant. In other words, wah wah wah, poor me.)