Alright. I know that when this pregnancy is over, I'm going to be a weepy, nostalgic mess. I'll only remember the amazingly wonderful sensations of being closer to my baby than I ever will be again and enjoying a relationship with her that is STRICTLY between the two of us. I will miss the fluttery kicks and lament the passing of my reproductive career.
I'll probably, at some point when I realize that my baby is no longer a baby, start begging for a 5th. (My husband is under strict orders to anticipate this and to firmly, strongly deny me.) Just in case that happens, however, I want to remind myself about the less that fuzzy, warm, happy, glow-y aspects of pregnancy... specifically pregnancy in tandem with being the mother of several children already. It seems that women have a penchant for scrubbing their memories clean of all reminders of these things after the fact, and I want to make sure that I've written down my woes not out of a desire for sympathy, but as a good dose of reality and common sense later on.
You know... as ammo to fight my hormonal wig-out when I wean this little girl or when she sleeps in a big-girl bed for the first time or... *gulp* goes to school for the first time. (Taking a break here - teary eyed already. See?)
So, let me state for the record that, at a day shy of 32 weeks, I have lost sight of my feet. Which is good because they're so dry they'd embarrass any mummy. They are, in fact, so dry and cracked and gross that I can literally pick laundry up by merely stepping on it. Like Velcro. And I'm pretty much powerless against it because they are just. so. far. away.
I have heartburn. It drives me nuts and leaves me in utter fear of anything acidic... but I'm so exhausted that I can't function without coffee. So I eat Zantac like Skittles and hope for the best. But if I let the heartburn get away from me, I throw up. But since I'm such a freaking manatee at this point, and since I've birthed so many children in such a short time, I pee when I boot. So each vomit episode lands me squatting in front of the toilet with a puddle of urine beneath me and I miss the toilet half the time in an effort to avoid stepping in my pee. And then I'm left sanitizing the bathroom at whatever heinously awful hour of the night this happens.
I alternate between two outfits. Two. And I'm usually so tired by the end of the day that I sleep in my clothing. It makes a very awkward laundry rotation.
Jack and I have conversations that go like this: "Mom, your belly button is a huge hole." "I know, Jack, that's because your baby sister has stretched it out." "My belly button is small. If I get fat like you, will mine grow too?"
Justin and I have conversations like this: "Do you..." "No."
Jordan and Addie are sick of sitting on my lap because they're sick of my lap kicking them off. Or punching them off... I'm not sure which.
My husband uses verbs like, "thundering" to describe how I move across a room. (That may or may not have a direct impact on the outcome of the conversation I described above.)
I am constantly starving but I can eat about a teaspoon of food before I feel either full or the heartburn comes back and I have to try to empty my bladder as quickly as possible...
...which isn't usually a huge problem since I make a pit-stop every 7.25 minutes anyway.
Things aren't where they should be. I'll leave it at that.
And I am not one of those lucky pregnant women who get gorgeous hair and nails and skin... I turn into some kind of alligator-woman with frizzy fluff on my head.
Every time I bend down and realize I've had to spread my feet apart to reach the floor, the grunt required to pull myself back to standing is half effort and half disgust.
I miss being able to roll around on the floor with my littles and I miss having a lap big enough to accommodate two toddlers for a story. I miss being able to hug Jack without having him ask me to please smush my boobs down because they get in the way. I miss being nimble and spry (ish) and 100% on my game for them.
Of course, I will miss all of this... this miracle of life. I will. I am blessed to be able to whine about it and blessed that God has chosen me to bear His children. I am. I know that... I just don't want to get too caught up in all the good and forget the bad and wind up doing it all over again - good and bad - because I've convinced myself and my husband that it's a terrific idea.
Because, uh, at this point, it sounds like a horrible idea.
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