whatiwastryingtosaywas

There's something wrong in the state of Denmark… and I think I may be it.

Tag: health

Sunday was not a good day…

If there’s ever a time in life that you cannot stand back, yank your arms from the slop and shit, rest those very fists against your hips and say “I’ve changed my mind; I’ve had enough and I want out. Let me out!” – it is when you’re pregnant. I realised this on Sunday.

I know… I thought I was quite smart too.

But hey, you can’t just wrench it out and leave it on the side of the road. Once it’s in there, and you’ve decided that’s where it should stay, that’s where it stays. Until it’s ready to come out.

Sjoe. Shit. Fuckadoodle doo.

Sunday felt like I just couldn’t anymore. Like that was enough now. When you come from a life where you never felt your lower intestines before or when a sore spine was usually a result of poor sleeping position and enter a life where you feel bruised and battered – where you’re scared to look at your pelvic area because you envision it has become a blue, purple mashy mess overnight – and only have the tiniest little kid with the most surprisingly strong kicks and punches to blame – things get very strange.

My friend Nadia says he’s pretty fucking grumpy too and that kinda makes sense. He’s running out of space and is probably pretty bloody bored in there. But if he really is running out of space, surely the movement should be limited?

Call me a quitter. Call me a shamelessly bad mother. Call me what you like. I care figs. The only thing I feel is sore and I’m tired of associating this with him. It’s not fair. He’s not to blame.

I can’t say I’m not excited now – the Day of The Excitement Level Hike has arrived! Yes, ma’am. I’m not sure it’s for the right reasons but with 9 weeks left, I’ve never felt more elated. And if I land up needing a C section, all the better – saves me a week or two of this at the end of the day.

Chat soon. Leave comments.

I am now a size 8…

I’m not fucking kidding.

My feet have grown a size. His mother is now a gigantic whale-person with enormous gallumpa feet and it’s all his own fault.

Word is that growth in foot size is normal. All my bones have spent the last few months separating and spreading to make room for the foetus and my feet bones are doing the same to accommodate the extra weight I’m carrying around. Frighteningly, word on whether this is going to return to normal after I’ve sprogged or not is split. Some folk believe that your shoe size at the end of the pregnancy is your new shoe size in life while others, bless my mother’s teeny tiny cotton socks, pish this advice in favour of the more appealing: “What rubbish! Everything goes back to normal after you’ve given birth. You’ve just got to be sure and start exercising the minute he’s clawed his way out!”

Humfph…

Sigh…

When is something nice going to happen?

Right now I have size 8 boats… floating mere centimetres above them are disgusting donut-shaped masses of flesh that used to be ankles. Everything kinda looks normal from there until you hit my arse, which is so cushion-y I can’t go into furniture stores anymore for fear of being sat on. The bump is what is it is but the boobs! The boobs were in trouble before they filled out. Now I just want to cry every time I look down at the swinging not-so-funbags because I know my old breasts are just not ever going to come back. I’m going to have to find the money for major surgery someday soon and that’s just not something I’m happy to think about right now. Underneath my gazoombas are lungs that are probably one third their normal size having been squished up against my sternum so climbing stairs are a lovely affair. My crowning glory is a static mess (honestly, no amount of hair calming product is helping) and I’m not even sure why I wash it anymore. All it does is spend every day scraped back in a scrunchie going grey and looking unhappy.

Covering all of this beauty is my heaviest organ to date – my skin – which is NOT YET GLOWING!

Instead, I’m bumpy, lumpy, spotty and shiny.

True, I have no stretch marks or varicose veins and maybe that should be enough (have you googled that shit? Jesus H… it’s not pretty).

I just think women should get more for this.

We are hormonal and periody and grumpy and teary and fucked up and mental and rejected and abandoned and insulted and ignored and treated badly and made to sleep in the frikking wet spot on and off throughout our lives. We can’t take drugs, drink wine or do anything fun for ten lunar months and all our shit falls to pieces while we’re at it.

The irony is, we deserve for this journey to be as beautiful as all those women claim it to be.

I’m waiting universe.

I’m waiting for something nice.

Chat soon. Leave comments. No judgement here.