We are at 29 weeks over here. When I say “we,” I mean me, the fetus, and my thighs. Adam and I are not one of those “We are pregnant,” couples. At least not after the initial first week or so of puking. I am pregnant. I am irrationally crying when there is no milk in the fridge. I am scratching my belly where I know some delightful, bright red stripes are preparing to appear. I am packing a change of clothes in the diaper bag for myself because I now pee my pants more often than our two-year old. I am growing outward from every part of my body; expanding like my very own little universe, forever and ever in every direction. There is no we in pregnant. If you rearrange the letters, there’s a tarp, which is about all that fits me these days.
Sleep is at a minimum. I was really hoping I could have a few more weeks to get six or more uninterrupted hours, but that does not seem to be in the cards. The Usurper is sleeping awesome. I never feel nighttime kicks. But don’t worry! Every other part of my body is conspiring against me to make up for it. I’m woken up several times a night by one of the many acts of betrayal my body is hurling at me.
Heartburn. I keep Tums on my nightstand and I pop those babies like they’re m&ms or Valium.
Back pain. Not even my beloved Snoogle can protect me anymore. If I lay in one position too long, I wake up feeling like my bones are made of tiny toothpicks, all threatening to snap. My hips, too. My hips! When I get up, I’m hobbling like a Golden Girl. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to wrap myself in ace bandages, just in case my legs actually detach.
I need to pee. I just did, but now I need to go again. I will also need to go again in forty minutes.
Dry mouth. Just in case for some reason, I won’t need to pee in forty minutes, my body has started pulling this nonsense. I wake up with literally no ability to produce saliva, and have to drink a liter of bathroom tap water. See you in twenty, bathroom.
Restless legs. It is very fun to wake up at 3am with an all-consuming urge to kick things. My apologies, Adam.
Braxton Hicks contractions. Just because the baby is keeping quiet doesn’t mean there isn’t a party in my uterus. Frequent pregaming going on in there.
Baby nightmares. Don’t think for a second that my subconscious would be left out of the festivities. I am jarred awake by dreams of birth. Dreams where two come out are my favorite. They’re usually accompanied by dreams where all my teeth are shattering and falling out in splintered chunks.
So as you can tell, I am in a great mood always. I’m sure I will continue my reign of sunshine throughout the next eleven (ELEVEN?!)(eleven.) weeks.