Excerpt from my new favourite book:
“The joy of knowing there’s a tiny little person being incubated. The elation of feeling the first kick in mommy’s belly. The excitement of knowing that you will be welcoming a new addition to your family in just a couple of weeks. Yeah, that all means squat now.
We’re at 35 weeks in what is billed as a 40-week process and we can’t wrap this thing up quickly enough. Really, doesn’t the baby have someplace else to go? Days are bad. Nights are bad. Early afternoons are bad. Around 9:12 am isn’t too bad, but that passes quickly. Even equipped with enough pillows to fend off an attack from a well-trained fighting foce, my wife can’t get comfortable in bed for more than 20 minutes at a time. She’d sleep on her back, but the Pregnancy Nazis have dictated that such outlandish behaviour will slightly reduce the oxygen supply to the baby’s brain, thereby setting b ack our precious little one’s mental development and dooming the child to a lift stuck on the wait lists of prestigious universities or, perish the thought, enrolled in a state school.
People in my parents’ generation smoked, drank and ate feta cheese with impunity all through their pregnancies and, for the most part, we turned out okay. But now it’s a federal crime if my wife wants to sleep on her back.”
This book was written by a man for expectant fathers and is the first truthful account I could find in a book, at least the first few pages. The pages that follow are a frank account of what fathers can expect and it’s very well written but I think Roger should’ve started earlier in the pregnancy and made it less about poop.
Anyway, onwards and upwards…
Dead centre week 36 and I can’t remember the last time I had a comfortable night’s sleep. This phenom isn’t new. Those of you who are regular readers will know the discomfort has been ongoing throughout. But, fuckaround, the levels have now reached dire proportions. My hips truly do feel dislocated. I cannot simply sweep a leg out to the side to budge the coffee table into position, the Dosey-Doe will not be done in my home for many weeks and bending to pick any of the numerous items that fall with embarrassing frequency from my suddenly clumsy hands up is just not happening. I can’t even pretend to look comfortable, no matter how many pillows I surround myself with, and, as it is the festive season, I’m having huge difficulties understanding why our families (some of whom have been through this before) keep demanding I get up, get dressed, drive places and act cheerful when surrounded by pain-free, mostly drunk, revellers. So over it. Bring on January. Whoop.
A friend of mine rather bluntly, I thought, reminded me that I’m pregnant, not dying, the other day but I can’t be sure of anything, having never done this before. As I reminded her rather kindly I thought, she was in her teens when she was last pregnant and should probably not be telling 30-sumping year old heavily pregnant women anything about their ancient hips and ongoing complaints :-).
The father of my child thinks I’m blowing this out of proportion. Or at least he did until random preggies, upon finding out which stage I’m at, started responding by saying things like “How’re the hips doing?” or “Has the pelvic burn set in yet?” – the answers to which are “I want to die” and “Burn? Burn? If you’re referring to the firey, grinding pit down south, it’s doing fine, thanks”. Motoring along swimmingly.
I’m heavy. I have put on weight and can feel my body being dragged down by a larger gravity pull than it’s ever experienced before (and I’ve fallen down a lot). The “drag” is… well… it’s a massive drag. It feels like effort must be made to lift and put feet down over and over again. I will never be this heavy again.
My vadge is in a constant state of pins and needles and all the Kelloggs High Fibre breakfast cereal in the world hasn’t prepared my rectum for the pressure it’s under at any given point on any given day. Don’t get me wrong, fibre is necessary, especially during pregnancy. Without it I’d probably be a bleeding mess, but when your baby decides it’s head down for the rest of the trip, nothing moves easily anymore.
Oh, and when people use the term dangling like a bunch of grapes, they’re lying. Nothing that horrendous is going on down there. But the itch can go fuck itself. And that’s me being charming about it.
The last fuzzy, fun bit I’d like to talk about today involves what I can only presume will be swollen veins in the head due to heat stroke. I’ve been experiencing the headaches of champions. On Friday, I was *this* close to getting into my car at two in the morning, driving myself to the hospital and demanding a morphine drip to treat the pain I was dead certain was being brought on by the world’s most challenging aneurism in history. Saturday promised to follow suite but, and here’s a tip for other mothers pregnant in the heat of summer, a cold ice pack on the neck and placed strategically on the sinus pressure points for hours at a time, can be helpful in stopping a pregnancy stroke/headache in its tracks.
Apparently, all of this magically, MAGICALLY disappears the minute (the MINUTE!!!!) the kid is out of your body so, effective tomorrow morning, bright and early, the two week count down begins.
On the good news front, the baby is very happily gaining weight. OBGYN says he’s healthy as a little booting horse and is still moving around like a backup dancer on Glee.
I’m looking forward to it being him that keeps me up at nights.