…because when you’re a giant, cranky, overheated incubator, sometimes all you can think to write about is your shortcomings.
I have this thing where I can’t outright lie – so if you ask me how I’m feeling, be prepared to hear some borderline TMI complaint.
I have a bald spot. Right in the front.
I generally like how I look when I’m pregnant, and I think pregnant bellies are beautiful. But the number on the scale is hard for me to get past, and I’m feeling a level of insecurity that I have never experienced before in my life.
I have eaten Tums as a legit snack. As in, I was hungry and stuck in traffic, and those were all I had in my purse. Sorry, but those things are good.
I have had coffee every day, colored my hair, eaten soft cheese and lunch meats (without heating), and snuck a few sips of beer/wine here and there. I have no idea what to say about that except that I guess I’m a huge jerk.
I was really upset after my last midwife appointment because I got a lot of grief about my weight. I later griped to my husband about it and said something like, “It’s not like I’m hitting the McDonald’s drive-thru or anything.” The next morning, I hit the McDonald’s drive-thru for breakfast. Because fuck it.
I’m in what I call the “hostile” stage of pregnancy. Either that or I’m just an asshole. (Is pregnancy rage a thing?) Pregnancy has completely demolished my filter. I am a disaster at work – I swear constantly, once stormed angrily out of a meeting, and cannot seem to stop myself from rolling my eyes outright.
I tinkle on myself a little at some point almost every day.
I think I smell weird. I hope I’m the only one who notices. (If you see me, don’t try to sniff me.)
Every time I go #2, I think about childbirth. I consider it practice.
We got family photos done this weekend, and I started plucking my eyebrows last Tuesday because I knew it would be a process that would take that long.
My daughter has eaten more macaroni and cheese during my pregnancy than I think I’ve eaten in my whole life – and that’s saying something! Her lunch box for daycare has gone from something I was moderately proud of to a sampling of the “processed crap” aisle at Stop & Shop.
My daughter and I have yelled at each other and cried together more times than I can count during this pregnancy. Sometimes I see my own behavior in her tantrums and feel super shitty about it.
I never ever felt this or would have said this during my first pregnancy, but I’m about ready to be done with this crap. I am very very grateful to be having a healthy, uncomplicated pregnancy, but it’s been really friggin hard.