I am thirty-seven weeks pregnant. You know what that means? It means: ANY TIME NOW, KID!
On account of this pregnancy being wholly and utterly average, without complications, without extremes of any kind, I've tried pretty hard not to whine too much online. (Um, sorry if you know me in real life.) I am super excited about this baby, super grateful that everything's gone well, and I am super aware of all the stories out there that aren't as easy and uncomplicated as mine, so I know better than to whine.
Except, I am thirty-seven weeks pregnant. And you know what that means? I AM DONE.
Oh MAN am I done. And I am sorry, Internet, that I can't think of anything else to write about at this point in my life. There IS nothing else. I attempt to be productive - my kitchen is half painted! I am caught up on laundry! I've paid all the bills! - but I do all of that while Severely Uncomfortable, and it's only going to get worse. The only remedy for this situation is to complain. Also: ice cream.
Last night Phillip and I decided to blow all our credit card points (thank you, grad school tuition!) on a new treadmill. Things are getting pretty bad when you are actually looking FORWARD to using a TREADMILL. I've even caught myself looking forward to things like "feeling like I want to make dinner" and "the ability to get up and down from the floor when I play Memory with the kids." AND I HATE MEMORY!
Tonight I wanted to take a bath, but my husband is at a work dinner and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get out of the tub on my own.
Yesterday I had a lot of energy, so I ran a bunch of errands with the kids and started painting my kitchen and met a new mom at the playground. "I can do this another couple weeks!" I told myself. FOOL.
Today I am a barely-moving lump of sore muscles and Braxton-Hicks contractions. When I got home from dropping the kids at preschool I promptly dropped my giant rear onto the couch and did not move for three hours. All day I've been wondering if THAT pain or THIS pain will turn into PRODUCTIVE pain. (Nope. Wishful thinking.) I am feeling acutely sorry for myself and using that to justify everything from cereal for dinner to putting the kids to bed almost an hour earlier than normal. (Not that they really noticed. For once I am appreciative of the days getting shorter!)
But because, again, Phillip is at a work dinner (did I mention that? A work dinner? At a nice restaurant? With fun people who are probably drinking adult beverages?) I put the kids to bed on my own. They both piled onto my lap, as we do in the Cheung household, for their bedtime stories, but only after I gave them a strict warning about the Tender Area that is Mommy's Tummy. And they were gentle, but after a while Jack was squirming and sort of giggling and I impatiently asked him what was up.
"The baby is KICKING ME, Mommy!"
And she was. I looked down and saw the little bulge moving around my belly, obviously annoyed that two giant preschoolers were invading her space. The baby nudged and wiggled under both kids while we read stories and you know, it wasn't like I was suddenly FINE with being pregnant. But I did start to feel brighter, easier-going, resigned in a good way. I wondered how we were going to hold three kids on our laps for bedtime stories. I told Jack and Molly that pretty soon their baby sister would be here, just a few more weeks, in time for Halloween. Which then started a whole conversation about what New Baby is going to BE for Halloween - very important to the preschoolers.
It really ISN'T much longer, is it.