I Am So Done With This Pregnancy Thing.
Mood:  irritated
Topic: Pregnancy
During the past week, I have abruptly blown up like a balloon. You think I'm kidding? I'm not kidding. My fingers look like sausages. My rings don't fit. My feet, by the end of the day, look like my grandmother's feet used to look, rising from my darling leopard sandals like ugly little loaves of bread swelling in their pans. My face is pudgy. Remember that smug little photo from a month ago, with the tiny butt and the cheekbones? Gone. All gone. I look like a fucking hippopotamus. The Michelin woman. In short: I AM FUCKING SICK OF BEING PREGNANT.

This particular brand of insanity always sets in for me around week 36. I am not a patient girl, as I think we've established. I want to go on Weight Watchers yesterday. I want to see my feet other than in fleeting glimpses. I want to bend over and tie my shoe without audibly grunting. I want to go three hours between mini-meals without my blood sugar plummeting to hell.

Oh, I know. She will come out and she will want to to be held and cuddled and rocked and swaddled and nursed around the clock. So bring it on! I'll do all that if it means not weighing 800 pounds anymore. If I can put on my wedding ring in the mornings fully trusting I'll be able to take it off at bedtime. Please, I want my thin self back. I don't want to waddle anymore. I don't want to sweat like a motherfucking sharecropper. I don't want to take five minutes just to climb off my bed. I am SO DONE WITH THIS.

Julia. Sweetie? Anytime from 38 weeks on is considered full-term. You're welcome to remain through the end of the month, but after that? I want you to come on out. Give your mama a break. I may not be a beautiful girl, but in certain ways I'm a vain girl, and I don't do chubby. Enough is enough.