Dear @%^! Baby,
Well. Our darling little shithead. Yesterday, we entered the closing stage of your leeching. The third trimester. The final three months. The last 12-ish weeks. The culminating 84-ish days.
Don’t try to do the math. Pregnancy dating is dumber than a box of rocks and makes zero sense. If you ask Arizona, now women are pregnant for two weeks prior to conception. FEMALE BODIES ARE MAGICAL! Anyway, some say the 3rd tri starts at week 27, others says it’s 27 and a few days, others think it’s week 28. I chose to go along with the 28 weekers because, frankly, the longer I could stay in the 2nd trimester, the better I felt.
BUT THERE IS NO ESCAPE NOW.
Let’s do a little round-up, eh?
Fruit Salad: The National Fruit and Fetus Comparison Board tells me you are roughly the size of a rutabaga. That is extremely unhelpful. I don’t really even know what that IS, much less how big it should be. I definitely don’t want to eat it.
Flavor Enhancers: Still can’t get enough fresh pineapple (so much so that I sent an angry tweet at Baja Fresh begging them to bring back their pineapple salsa. And then threatened to burn it down via my Facebook status), Mexican food or Jimmy Johns. I even reclaimed my Foursquare mayoral seat at JJ’s which I am pretty damn proud of. I know that ham is supposed to be verboten, but dang nabbit, it’s all I want. ALL HAM ALL THE TIME.
Growing Pains: Holy man, the back pain after a weekend of house cleaning. I waddled for the first time after getting out of bed with the stiffest back I’ve ever experienced. I waddled. I was not happy.
The Weight is On: I feel huge, but apparently my 11 pound gain has not been enough to appease my doctor. Lord knows I’ve been stuffing my $#^! face whenever the mood strikes. I was given instructions to “indulge more” once again. If she saw what I actually ate in the course of a day, she may change her tune. But, Doctor’s Orders! Pass the cupcakes. And milkshakes. And chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches.
(Sweet) Relief: The bathroom trips are getting annoying, especially when it’s four times during the night. WHEN THERE IS NOTHING IN THE BLADDER. Maybe if you would cease being a little shithead and stop kicking me in said bladder I wouldn’t have to roll out of bed to tinkle. And I mean literally. It’s just a %^#1&@! tinkle. NOT WORTH THE WADDLE.
I’ve also come to the point in the journey which requires doctor appointments every two weeks. I can tell you how they go. Check-in. Wait. Pee in cup. Get weighed. Check blood pressure. Wait. Doctor enters.
“Any pain?” Nope.
“Any problems?” Nope.
“Any questions?” Nope.
Get belly measured. Listen to heartbeat. Get information on what the next appointment will entail, if it is going to require a special test of some sort. Get the peace out, see ya later.
So mundane. Not that I want them to be anything different, but it kills my productivity if I have to go back to work afterwards. #justjokes #iamalwaysunproductive
I meant to take a picture yesterday to include here because apparently people are angry at the lack of bump, but I looked like hell and then just plain forgot. So suck it up for a few days, I’ll take some pictures this weekend. In the meantime, here’s how I played the system in the worst parking lot ever because my mom had just gotten off her flight and we were both starving. Even though I look visibly pregnant, I felt pretty %$@&~ shady walking away from the car in 4 inch heels. BUT I AM, IN FACT, PREGNANT SO NEENER NEENER. I didn’t see any further stipulations for space usage.
So, little rutabaga, hang tight a few more months. Or longer, it’s totally up to you. You are much safer in there than out here where I can drop you, scald you, bang your head against doorjambs, under nourish you, nick your fingers with fingernail clippers, forget to bathe you, over nourish you, yell at you, stare at you, poke you, scratch you, drop you again, break you, forget you in the car, leave you outside in the rain, forget to change your litterbox, etc. Stay here. Stay here as long as you can.