I have decided, in all my wisdom and glory, that it is entirely unfair of God to allow pregnancy to become more arduous the more times you gestate. I mean, seriously, what's up with this? Have I not proven my deep resolve to be a human incubator in the previous SEVEN full term pregnancies? Is my quickly approaching 38 birthday not sufficient evidence that I value children over, say, retirement at 72? Do I really need to suffer... really?
I am nearing the end of what can, without a doubt, be called my most unpleasant pregnancy. Now, before I receive a plethora of gory pregnancy stories sure to shock me, or anyone who has more than 3 brain cells, let me gently preface all this by saying that I do not experience technically difficult pregnancies. I do not require profuse amounts of medical attention. I am not bedridden. I have never been diagnosed with hypertension, gestational diabetes or hyperemesis. In fact, with the exception of Bethany, I don't even get stretch marks. You could definitely say my complaints are simply run of the mill. But I've been running the mill without much of a break for 13 years. Doesn't that count for something?
I am tired. And I mean really, really tired. I gave the entire house a thorough vacuuming yesterday and about fell over from exhaustion. However, this shouldn't cause you to believe that I am sleeping. True, I may well be found in my bed 22 hours of the day, but getting a restful night's sleep is far more elusive than placing your body in the room assigned to this activity. My right hip hurts. My left hip aches. I can't sleep on my back or tummy. And when I do finally nod off for a moment or two my dreams are the stuff of a Stanley Kubrick film gone wrong... and frankly I'm one of those people who doesn't believe there is a lot of right to begin with in a Kubrick film. His films give me heartburn. Actually, I have heartburn all the time now. Heartburn when I eat spicy food. Heartburn when I eat bland food. Heartburn when I bend over to pretend I am tying my shoe. Heartburn when I lie down. Heartburn when I sit down. Heartburn when I drink milk, juice, chai or water. Then I gag down my Gaviscon only to find that my gag reflex is out of control. I have to use my crazy ninja skills to brush my back teeth in order to clean them before my throat involuntarily convulses into some wild chicken dance and I lose whatever was causing me to have heartburn.
I used to proudly strut around with my baby bump perched effortlessly on the front of my body. I now waddle like an elephant with a hippopotamus strapped to the underside of her belly. It's not a very pretty sight - nor is the dry, flaking skin stretching from my forehead to my toes. Thankfully I have a total of two muumuus that I can rotate in order to feel pretty and fresh every day. Imagine if I had only one!
I mention this to you mostly because I am soliciting copious amounts of sympathy.
Yep, this is not fair.