Pitty Party

The other day I began climbing the steps to get out of the pool and immediately looked down to see if I had forgotten about a weight belt I’d put on earlier or perhaps to see a friend hanging onto my legs shouting, “Don’t get out of the pool! It’s so fun!” Nope. I had become so comfortable not feeling the extra 25 pounds in the water that when I tried to get out, my body was in shock. Nope, I thought. No weight belt. That’s just me.

The latest? I’m pret-ty tired of being pregnant. Around the 5 month mark, pregnancy really gets fun. You can feel the baby and people know you’re pregnant and not just fat (they’d been guessing until that point, and sometimes incorrectly). Around the 7 month mark, though, you start to get tired. Not so tired that you can’t function, but tired enough that a nap sure would help. You start to notice that the big t-shirts you were wearing, you know the ones that used to hang off of you, are now too tight to even sleep in. And going from one side to the other at night makes one ponder renting a crane.  As I stare down month eight in its beady little eyes, I can already tell I’m on the losing end of this flinching contest.

My belly is now too big to do most anything that involves being close to counters, people, or grocery shelves. I’m sure Abraham already has some kind of cranial trauma from the amount of times I’ve bumped into things. I can no longer lean forward close to the bathroom mirror to ensure my mascara is not clumping without smooshing into the sink (this is only applicable to the days I actually make it to “self-improvement”). Washing my face is sort of a comedy of errors, as it’s nearly impossible to get close enough to the sink to prohibit the water from splashing everywhere. I cannot reach the top shelf without knocking everything off the middle shelf at the grocery store. And hugging people is just sort of out of the question. I have to do the lean in, pat on the back, try not to lose my balance and fall forward into the person I’m hugging thing.

I do not have swollen feet or ankles and I’m not gaining a lot of weight. This means that Abraham is gaining weight while I lose muscle mass. This is exactly what I need right now: fewer leg muscles to hold up a growing baby perched in my uterus. The gestational diabetes makes it nearly impossible to eat anything fun or satisfying without risk of the nurse’s voice in my head repeating, “Just remember to think about what the food you eat will do to your baby before you eat it.” Yeah, she knows a new mother’s weak spot, huh? So that leaves not sucking my stomach in. Right now, that’s the best part of pregnancy. I don’t have to suck my stomach in. And you know what? That leaves my scale of justice pretty lop-sided.

Aaaand, pitty party…FIN.