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

 

Don’t get me wrong, little baby, it’s been a blast. But let’s not kid ourselves, kid. You and I are both getting increasingly uncomfortable with our current mutual situation and I know, deep down, as much as you’ve become accustomed to your home and can’t imagine life anywhere else, you’re probably wondering if you’re destined for a lifetime of being squished, jumped on (you have your older sister to thank for that), balanced on, and gently coaxed into a different position when you get a little too all-up-in-my-rib-cage.

It’s all about to get really, really different for you. We’re all dying to meet you, and in non-pregnant-person terms, there’s really very little time to go (to clarify, in pregnant-person terms, it’s 691,200 seconds, each of which is emphatically counted).

It’s just that there are some things I definitely am not going to miss about being pregnant. Well, this pregnant, at least.

For one thing, in light of this mega-baby I am apparently carrying, the sometimes awed, sometimes horrified, looks at my belly are getting old. Someone actually grimaced, tut-tutted and shook their head at me as they walked past the other day. I couldn’t even. The “you’re HUGE” comments don’t quit, naturally. And look, of course, there are the loving looks every now and then which are very heartwarming, until I throw my almost 22-month-old up on my hip, pick up her collapsed umbrella stroller to board the bus and people freak. the hell. out. Like “Please! Don’t! Your water will break all over bus 197!” 

I recently witnessed someone using the term “giant mother belly” (not towards me, thank goodness) which I know was intended in that earth-mama, nature’s-miracle, oh-what-a-sacred-mission-you-have-been-blessed-with, kinda way. But no one wants to actually be referred to as a giant, right? I mean especially not when you’re about to “pop” (another late-stage pregnancy term that I hate, but admittedly find myself using). And when you really do feel like a giant. I was walking around downstairs at the playground with Tuna the other day and two people were whispering to each other (except instead of “whispering”, they were chatting very, very audibly) about how absolutely gigantic my belly was and wondering how on earth that baby was going to come out. Granted, these people were about eight years old, but they were not spared my look of giant mother belly rage.

Next up on the preggo rant list, can we please all agree that the universe is a little bit cruel in the way that it makes sleep borderline torture just before sleep is about to be turned on its head entirely upon the arrival of your adorable bundle of joy? It’s just not fun anymore. My sister is visiting us, with my mother, and recently we were talking about how great it was that Tuna is now sleeping through the night finally. Except that the irony of it all is that my unborn second-born is already making sleep impossible. The tossing. The turning. The feeling that you are genuinely sleeping on a full-grown baby if your position is even slightly off. The numb shoulders. The alarming feeling of needing to pee OH-MY-GOSH-RIGHT-NOW but then in reality it’s hardly a trickle (too much? #sorrynotsorry). The unpredictable bouts of insomnia when the rest of your household is fast asleep and you start going through a messy mental checklist of all of the things you still haven’t done in preparation for the baby’s arrival because you got lazy being all “Oh. No no. I’ve done this before. Aaalllllll of that can wait until later. We got this.”. Wondering if that’s just a cramp or the beginning of a contraction. The leg cramps. UGH THE LEG CRAMPS. Hunger pains at 4am. Not fun.

It’s also hot. It’s very hot. I’m the epitomy of pregnancy clichés with my constant “Is the air-con even on?!” and fanning myself with whatever I can find which might assist the air in its circulation. That, in conjunction with my other favourite line, “I need to sit down” has made me the life of the party. I’m a real treat to be around right now. I’m hungry and then suddenly the idea of a certain food makes me want to hurl. I’m full of energy and want to go out and then immediately want to go home and put my feet up. I’m laughing and enjoying myself and then snapping at innocent people out of nowhere.

Which brings me to my favourite thing that I’ve been doing lately: crying – no – sobbing – for no legitimate reason whatsoever.  The day before yesterday, my patient, tolerant, forgiving sister and I got into a little tiff – entirely caused by me saying something that irritated her, as us snappy preggos tend to do, and then as I was apologising, knowing full well that I was totally the one to blame, I find myself crying like a blubbering fool. I had to leave the room. Oh, and I wasn’t even graceful about it with a lone tear or anything. The heaving sobs began shortly afterwards as I tried to put some cream cheese on my cracker in the kitchen in which I chose to hide as I was slightly embarrassed by my weird and illogical bout of crying. That, accompanied by me laughing maniacally through the tears, saying “I actually don’t even know why I’m crying” – well, let’s just say there are moments where I freak even myself out.

So many feelings. All the time. I don’t even understand these hormones and their sorcery.

8 days. 8 days until the crazy shall subside. Except we all know full well that it all just gets a little crazier after the baby arrives, don’t we?

Sorry family. That’s what unconditional love is all about.

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