That pregnant lady is complaining again.

Ah, those final weeks of pregnancy.

For me, it has come to those final days. I don’t think time has ever gone by so. slowly.

Mama’s getting tired.

And cranky.

And just – very – sarcastic. More sarcastic than usual. I know. It’s not pretty.

I’m complaining a lot; to the point that I’m starting to irritate myself with the extent of that complaining. But being the entitled preggo that I am, I’m not going to dwell for too long on how much this is probably irritating those around me. I’m the one with a seemingly giant baby growing in my abdomen (my doctor continues to be astounded at the rate at which this baby is growing), therefore I shall continue to complain. And make those horrendously unattractive grunts when I stoop down to pick something up. And lay on the couch like a beached whale at any given opportunity.

Preggo

 

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Baby, I wish you didn’t have to cry.

I need to get this off my chest.

I’ve been thinking about it all day, and it’s getting me a little down.

It’s one of those typical mama feelings, which I’m sure many of us feel, and I know it’s normal, natural, healthy even, but truthfully, I’m not enjoying it. Not one bit. Nope. Don’t wanna anymore.

Tuna cried when I dropped her off at preschool this morning. Sure, it was only for about 5 seconds. I lurked at Clingy Anxious Mothers’ Bay, otherwise known as the area near the escalator by the entrance of her school, hidden from view, and watched her to make sure she stopped crying before I could tear myself away. She stopped crying. I couldn’t see her anymore as they turned the corner heading to the playground. And I had to leave.

I sort of wanted the teachers to suggest gently that I stay for the day. You know, for her sake.

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What my father taught me about being a mother

So often we, as mothers, think back to how our own mothers have shaped and influenced us as parents. They’re usually the default example to which we revert when we find ourselves in a situation.

In my case, I’ve been fortunate to have one of those dads that was very involved, very supportive, very there, all through my childhood, adolescence, and now adulthood.

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Turns out Mama’s the one not ready for preschool.

December has been a month of big decisions for us. We’ve decided to start sending Tuna to “preschool”.

I say “preschool” because it’s very much “pre” and very little “school”. I mean, let’s be honest, at this age, you’re essentially just putting your kid in an institution where they can finger paint without abandon, run around the world’s most well child-proofed playground, engage in “sensory” play by baking organic wholewheat pizzas and what not, and you don’t have to clean any of it up or break a sweat.

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How my toddler taught me to love my body

Today, I came across an old photo of myself in an album that my mother meticulously put together about twenty years ago. I remember when she undertook this project. She wanted to have a dedicated album for each of her three daughters, and it involved hours of lovingly sorting, arranging and reminiscing over every single photograph. She gave me my album to keep when she came for the birth of my first daughter.

In that photo, I’m about eight years old. I’m standing at the shore of the ocean with my youngest sister, aged three at the time. She has a delighted grin on her face as she gingerly treads the golden sand, but you can’t see mine as it’s covered by my windswept, thick, brown curls with copper-tinged ends due to being in the sun for days on end. I’m wearing a bathing suit. My long, strong legs show that I was tall for my age.

All I can remember when I see this photo is the time my preteen self saw it in the album, self-consciously extracted it and hid it away from view.

I look so fat,” I remember thinking to myself. I hated seeing it and certainly didn’t want anyone else to see it. I remember my other sister, two years younger than me, asking me at some point why I hated that photograph so much. I don’t remember how I answered her.

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