How do I feel? HOW DO YOU THINK I FEEL?!
I should be rejoicing - Yippee! Halfway through the Surprise Pregnancy! Only 4 months to go! I'm so giddy I could skip!
But I'm not. Really, I'm not.
Not that I wouldn't love to be skipping about tra-la-la-ing throughout fields of native flowers... well, that is if my allergies were in check and I wouldn't balloon up and sneeze for fifteen hours following said skipping excursion....
But I can't skip. Hell, I have trouble walking across the office to the bathroom every hour on the hour (regardless of my limited fluid intake). My back hurts from sitting at a desk for eight hours a day. I've got heartburn so bad I think my chest will literally disintegrate from the intense burning. I'm tired - more tired than I ever thought humanly possible. If I could nap for four to five hours a day I'd be golden. Not that napping is an option... certainly not at work... certainly not at home where Bean feels it's her personal calling in life to make sure everyone knows how miserable her existence is every single second of every single day. I can hardly relax at home - sure there's Bean and her constant complaining, but there's also Satan who manages to make obnoxious noises and interruptions non-stop, and poor Dotter who quietly asks for help on homework (and I continue to forget, like the boxes we were to bring in that I never gathered. Ugh! The guilt!), not to mention Big V who spews forth every thought going through his head, a steady feed of thought process, jumping irrationally from one thought to the next.
That's it people. The truth is out. Pregnancy is not this glamorous event that leaves me swooning in awe and wonder. I know, I'm horribly selfish. I have a back that won't crack, socks I can't put on, and a fetus who thinks it's entertaining to make me walk while he's wedged as far south in my crotch as he can go. I feel like I'm trying to walk with a volleyball shoved between my pelvis. Four more months of this and I'll be hooking vodka up to my IV as I push this sucker out.
But I'm not. Really, I'm not.
Not that I wouldn't love to be skipping about tra-la-la-ing throughout fields of native flowers... well, that is if my allergies were in check and I wouldn't balloon up and sneeze for fifteen hours following said skipping excursion....
But I can't skip. Hell, I have trouble walking across the office to the bathroom every hour on the hour (regardless of my limited fluid intake). My back hurts from sitting at a desk for eight hours a day. I've got heartburn so bad I think my chest will literally disintegrate from the intense burning. I'm tired - more tired than I ever thought humanly possible. If I could nap for four to five hours a day I'd be golden. Not that napping is an option... certainly not at work... certainly not at home where Bean feels it's her personal calling in life to make sure everyone knows how miserable her existence is every single second of every single day. I can hardly relax at home - sure there's Bean and her constant complaining, but there's also Satan who manages to make obnoxious noises and interruptions non-stop, and poor Dotter who quietly asks for help on homework (and I continue to forget, like the boxes we were to bring in that I never gathered. Ugh! The guilt!), not to mention Big V who spews forth every thought going through his head, a steady feed of thought process, jumping irrationally from one thought to the next.
That's it people. The truth is out. Pregnancy is not this glamorous event that leaves me swooning in awe and wonder. I know, I'm horribly selfish. I have a back that won't crack, socks I can't put on, and a fetus who thinks it's entertaining to make me walk while he's wedged as far south in my crotch as he can go. I feel like I'm trying to walk with a volleyball shoved between my pelvis. Four more months of this and I'll be hooking vodka up to my IV as I push this sucker out.
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