You know how women start doing odd, sometimes inappropriate things near the end of their pregnancies to encourage their wee ones to exit the womb a bit early?
I can now relate to these women.
Let’s be clear, though – the run down of my pregnancy symptoms hasn’t been THAT awful… there are many, many women who’ve had things much worse. I’ll freely admit (and I’m sure Husband will whole-heartedly agree) that the third trimester is kicking my ASS, but it really could be worse. Yes, I’ve had constant heart burn for the past 9 months. Yes, my fingers are now 2 sizes larger, my feet look like Fred Flintstone’s, and I’ve got to stop half-way between the bedroom and the kitchen to endure some of those delicious “practice” contractions.
I discovered a few months ago that I’m one of the “lucky” women who actually develop ocular migraines during pregnancy (translation: I get headaches so bad I literally can’t see, and since there’s a tiny person in my belly I make do with a bit of chocolate and a boo-boo buddy instead of some hardcore drugs), I spent a most excellent few days in and out of the hospital with a scary infection that made baby’s heart rate bottom out, and I’m pretty sure I’ve had just about every symptom a pregnant gal can get. Yes, ALL OF THEM.
So then, you’re probably wondering which symptom it is that’s broken me. The constant mood swings? Nah. The stretch marks? (Nope – I’m stretch mark free as of this moment, KNOCK ON WOOD). The racing heart beat? The shortness of breath? The constant trips to the bathroom? Nope – all tolerable.
IT’S MY MOTOR SKILLS.
I’m not allowed to bring electronic devices into the kitchen anymore. There are several perfectly decent (except for being shattered irreparably) water glasses in a landfill because of my pregnancy. I’m not allowed to slice my own fruit anymore. There are no less than three brand-new-and-completely-waterlogged “How to be a Great Mom” books in the house (no more reading in the bath tub for this woman)! My laundry load has already doubled – not because of baby clothes, but because *this girl* keeps dropping (and spilling, and splashing) EVERYTHING she tries to consume down the front of her shirt. Husband follows around behind me picking up the random objects I drop – a fork, an envelope, a hat. There’s been a dish towel on the floor in the hall way for about a week now, and when Husband brings himself home a bottle of scotch at the end of the week, he now also brings home a box of band-aids for his lovely wife.
Just today I dumped most of a 14 pound bag of cat food all over the floor. Don’t worry – I wasn’t lifting it… Husband put it on the kitchen table for me so that I could transfer it to its more appropriately sized storage containers. It’s just that, well, I have the motor skills of a three year old, and as soon as I cut the top off the bag (which I was pleased with myself for doing without accidentally slicing any fingers), it toppled over onto its side, covering the kitchen table, two chairs, and most of the dining room carpet with cat food. We’re talking EXPENSIVE cat food here, too, people – Miss Nina, bless her soul, is allergic to ALL THE THINGS, so we’ve had to upgrade to corn-free infused-with-gold-and-diamonds cat food.
Fraidy Cat thought Christmas had come early…
Nina, on the other hand, just looked sort of worried.
My no-longer-pregnant friends assure me that eventually I’ll be able to walk and chew gum at the same time again, but in the meanwhile I’m eating spicy things, going for long (slow, rambling, senior citizen speed) walks, and doing lots of squats (it’s easy to work them in… someone’s got to pick up all those things I drop when Husband’s not around). And as for Baby Boy, well… he’s officially full-term now, so we’ll be seeing him very, VERY soon (and hopefully sooner rather than later).