Pregnancy blows. There has to be a better way to have a child. Perhaps I should have found a surrogate. How much do surrogates run these days? If all I had was $100 and a couple of unexpired gift cards to Red Robin, what level of quality in a surrogate would I have been able to secure? If I was able to kick in bus fare to the surrogate's doctor's appointments, would that afford me a slightly better surrogate? Like someone who only smokes while they're out and drinking as opposed to just smoking... whenever?
Actually, I can't complain too much. The pregnancy up to this point has been okay- I've been able to ignore it for the most part, or at least up until a couple weeks ago. Now, however, that I am thirty-six weeks, EVERY DAY IS WORSE THAN THE ONE BEFORE. This is my living hell, my waking nightmare. I can't sleep or even comfortably sit. I can't relax on the couch at night to watch TV because I have restless legs and a pelvic floor that feels like it's going to shatter. TV was the ONE THING I had that was just mine, the singular thing I could look forward to after a long, tiring day. And now I don't even have that. When you can't comfortably lay on the sofa to soak in one measly hour of the Kardashians- well, then you know that you've really turned a corner right onto Poop Street.
I think I've dislocated my hips. Can't say I'm thrilled about that!
I'm feeling short of breath all the time. I think I would die if I had to blow up a balloon- or blow out a candle. I should be thankful my birthday's not until August.
And I am so crabby. I have lashed out at Andy much more in this past week than in his whole life. He is incessant with his demands- outside, uppies, snacks, Elmo, et cetera, and after forty-five minutes of telling him, no, we can't go outside, as patiently as possible, I find myself completely losing it. I SAID NO! NO OUTSIDE! Put your goddamn shoes AWAY! And so forth, at the top of my lungs. These are not good moments in my career as mother, although I am optimistic that when they hand out the awards for "Mother of the Year" in December, the committee will take into account all of the hormones rushing through my system along with the extreme physical discomfort I'm in, along with the fact that Andy has been truly irritating as of late.
And yes, there is a "Mother of the Year" award, and yes, the committee consists of me, and yes, I am nominating myself again, even though last year I ended up giving the award to someone else, some other mother truly more deserving than myself, one who did not allow their husband to offer their baby a glass of grape soda and a bag of Doritos for dinner. That being said, I still gave "Father of the Year" to Chris, mostly because he threatened to "ruin Andy's life" unless he got that coveted award, the one I printed off of Microsoft Word 97 onto the back of a landscaping flyer I found in my mailbox.
The acid reflux has also been out of control as of late, too. The acid bubbles up my throat until I feel like I'm going to throw up. And sometimes I do!
If last time is any indication, I will return to my old self, at least physically, pretty quickly after this baby is born. The acid will go away, and I will once again find comfort in the cushions of my couch (on the rare opportunities I will get to actually relax). My mood was amazing after Andy was born, too- I was happy again. I hope it's the same this time, too, and that I find I have the patience, strength, and joy to deal with my family- that I ride that same high that comes from loving your baby (and toddler) and just being so incredible thankful that I am lucky enough to be a mom. This is my biggest wish. I know that Andy will go through a huge transition and that the baby will be the baby- full of needs- and so I know it falls on me to balance them and keep my cool and be a rock of sorts. And Chris, too, he's not off the hook in any of this. But, for myself, my wish is for me. Please grant me patience, strength, and energy. And an extra pair of arms so that I can hold both of my sons at once. Also, if someone wants to drop off dinner every night, too, that would also be helpful. Might as well drop off lunch, too. We like things that are covered in cheese.
I can't wait until I feel back to my old self again. I also don't want to have this baby any earlier than 39 weeks if I have ANY choice in the matter- so, I guess I'm saying I'll take these next three weeks and suffer through them the best that I can. There will be lots of complaining on my end, though, along with a few tears, screams, and the occasional acid-induced vomit session. Before I know it, though, Elmo Berger will be here. Yes, we told Andy he could name the baby, and he decided on Elmo. He could have done a lot worse- there was a fifty-fifty chance we'd be having a Pee-Pee Berger. And if you were trying to decide on hiring an Elmo Berger or a Pee-Pee Berger to be your latex salesman, I know that Elmo would (just barely) win out every time. So, good naming, Andy. Good naming.
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