So not sexy
Today is the due date given to my second daughter. She is blissfully unawares, apparently. I don't mind being pregnant, in fact, I actually like it. The hormones chill me out, sort of like a constant drip of "don't give a shit" running through my veins (given how anxiety-prone I typically am, this comes as a bit of a vacation from my personal flavor of crazy). I don't puff up, get stretch marks, hemorrhoids, heart burn, or that funny brown pigment line on my belly; I seem to skip all the nastiness many of my beloved friends have suffered. The worst of it is a perpetual state of spaciness, dull pain in my hips and back, some nausea, and fatigue. Most folks can't reliably tell I'm pregnant until I hit 6 months or so. Even now, I can zip my bump under my heavy winter coat.
But.
It's just that from about 37 weeks onward I feel really big. It's around that point what shaving my legs gets to be an act in sightlessness, and my sleep gets squished into two 3-4 hour bursts. The little annoyances of carrying another person inside me start piling up. I feel heavy, weighed down, burdened. Time passes, and here at 40 weeks the end result is impatience. I want to meet her, see if she is a brunette or blond like her sister; will she be born shrieking or silently watching? I would also like my body back.
But.
It's just that from about 37 weeks onward I feel really big. It's around that point what shaving my legs gets to be an act in sightlessness, and my sleep gets squished into two 3-4 hour bursts. The little annoyances of carrying another person inside me start piling up. I feel heavy, weighed down, burdened. Time passes, and here at 40 weeks the end result is impatience. I want to meet her, see if she is a brunette or blond like her sister; will she be born shrieking or silently watching? I would also like my body back.