Common sense and experience have been forsaken in the name of tallying up a laundry list of first-world problems I'd really love to rattle off to anyone who'll listen, but I don't usually... b/c:
I'd be remiss in not mentioning this not-so-rare jerk. Do you know her? She's at the grocery store, Target, the park. . . .
Jerk says: "How far along are you?"
Me: "36 weeks."
Jerk: "Oooh, you're almost there!"
Me: "He can come anytime he wants! I'm ready to meet him!" (I swear, I'm delivering this line as good naturedly as possible..not all Gilda Radner/Wendy Whiner)
Jerk: "Oh, you'll be so tired in those first couple of weeks, you'll wish he was back in there ((motions to my stretched-beyond-all-recognition womb))."
Don't say that, ok? It doesn't help and could get you punched in the nose. Pregnant women be crazy.
With that in mind, I'll carry on.
I'm officially out of room. Wanna know how I know? Henry just kicked my sternum and it popped. Audibly.
And yesterday morning? I had to get low on a hospital bed because Henry's head is so far down that the ultrasound tech couldn't get a picture of it.
That, of course, came after a med student tried to measure the size of my uterus with ye olde tape measure. Mid-palpation/comfortable rhetoric about the exact location of my pubic bone, Henry punched him so hard that the med student yelled, "Holy crap!" and dropped the tape.
Speaking of breathing, every time I bend over, all of the air rushes out of my lungs and my "extremely long! how tall is your husband?!" baby cuts off all circulation below the waist, and I feel like I'm going to pull one of these:
I've developed a prehensile foot for picking things up off the floor. Or when I can't be motivated to do that, I'll just stare and cuss. Nothing good happens after a 45 degree bend at the waist.
Melissa & Doug, I've had it with your Velcro pepperoni. HAD IT. I'm thinking about firing up the outdoor fireplace just so I can bask in the glow of your wooden block pizza, wedding cake, realistic food groups and educational puzzles.
My friends Braxton and Hicks are coming hard and fast and unpredictably. They leave me uncharacteristically breathy and very Marilyn Monroe. Except not hot. At all. Maybe more like this:
There are no comfortable sleeping positions left. I compensate by falling asleep sitting up, then falling over (goat-like or drunk-like), waking up to my own snore/drool/dead arms and waddling through the house at all hours of the night eating extra strength peppermint Tums. I'm living the life of a Golden Girl.
I have only two shirts and two pairs of pants that fit.
That's all for today. It's time for me and Harper to run to Blockbuster so that I can knock over another candy display with my belly.
I died. Died!!
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