I am freakin’ great with child. And consequently in a foul mood. And very much not comfortable.
I don’t like being pregnant. Never have. Which, considering how many times I hop on this carousel, is odd in and of itself. I’m ok with getting kicked and feeling hiccups, I mean, if you’re going to show up, most especially uninvitedly, you might as well have the courtesy of letting me know you’re alive and ok. I don’t understand the women who wax poetically about being pregnant. What’s lovely about feet up ribs? What’s magical about skin break out and swelling livers? What is there to love about 30 pound weight gains? Who only gains 30 pounds when pregnant?
I don’t get the whole empowered when pregnant attitude. I would love to feel empowered. I feel crippled. Mostly because I can’t walk, and I can’t breathe.
And then there are maternity clothes. Now I don’t go spending much on maternity clothes. It’s hard to spend much on clothes you know you’re going to only wear for a few months. And, anything semi decent costs an arm and a leg. So you would think that clothes made for mothers to be would at least attempt to assist you in flattering your largeness.
But no. Seriously, did they not get the memo on mom jeans and appropriate pocket placement? Really, maybe it’s just a cruel joke, since you are going to be a mother, here, wear mom jeans. And why is it, by the time maternity shirts fits your swollen womb, and stop looking like a tent, your boobs are actually resting on said baby carrier. Cruelty abounds.
It’s not all for waste, I suppose. X-Man likes to ride his sister’s abode like a bull. There’s just enough give for him to get excited, and then she starts kicking him, so that adds a whole new level of excitement. All I have to do is rub it, and suddenly I’m off the hook for any sort of volunteering. That’s not too shabby. But my feet are swelling. And I have a large shoe collection. I can’t have my feet grow. These are real first world problems people!
I don’t get all the boudoir shots with mom and dad and belly. Admittedly, most women in those shots look better than I do, but I don’t want to remember being this large, unwieldy and uncomfortable. No matter what the angle is, I’m still forcing 40 lbs. of baby growth into 30 lbs. capacity pants. No wonder this child is crawling up my esophagus to avoid entering the world.
So I sit here, making Tums its own food group. And considering the fact that this is the easy part. Seriously, then they come out, and you have to put diapers on them. Good thing we make cute ones.