As I started to write this I was like, “Oh no! What did I do? I lost a week!” I saw that last week I posted week 25, knew that today was 27 and couldn’t figure out how I’d overlooked week 26. But alas, I write for the preceding week and nothing is lost. Good lord!
Today is week 27 and that means we begin our third and final trimester. Golly gee it just doesn’t even seem possible that I’ve been pregnant for nearly seven months. That’s a long time! I woke up pretty excited this morning, that we’ve reached yet another milestone without incident. It just keeps creeping so much closer and the anxiety and anticipation are fighting it out between both Shelton and I.
I am so enjoying being pregnant. I love it, I absolutely love it. At the same time, I’m like, it’s a means to an end and the end will be here soon and life will go back to normal. Well, a new normal. Never again will we know our normal. I love my bump. It’s perfect. It’s the exact baby bump I’ve always wanted. I’ve gained about 30 pounds and yet you’d never know it by looking at me. Another thing I’m so grateful for. So far I’m growing very similarly to how my younger sister did last summer and I’m excited about that, because if we look similar pregnant, dear God let me lose the weight and get back in shape in the timely fashion she has.
This past week, number 26, was actually pretty decent. The charlie horse that wrecked my leg and will live on in the Smithsonian of leg cramps was really both the high and low for the week. I’m very pleased to report that I had little to no issue with my back this past week, it didn’t seem to bother me much at all. Even the heartburn seemed to have dissipated.
However, I think I’m turning in to an insomniac. I crave sleep more than I do Doritos and pizza (and chocolate cake… and tacos….). I know I’ve mentioned to you several times that I’m a wicked sleeper. I like to get as much of it as I can and sleep as late as possible (which most days is 8am). I’ve been this way my entire life. I think this is just my body’s way of preparing me for the inevitable insomnia that awaits when the monster gets here, and in that regard, I can kiiiiiiind of appreciate the sentiment. But otherwise, this is for the mother effing birds and I’m over it! I’ve been waking up at 3am for a while now. Wide awake, not like the half-conscious stumble to the bathroom at 1. No, I’m awake. Making lists, thinking about work, planning errands, re-working conversations… all in my head… in the middle of the night. Some days, it’s too much to fight, I just get up. Last night, I managed to lie there awake and coax myself to sleep an hour later. I’m one of these people though that when I’m up, I’m up. There’s no middle ground. During the week, by noon or one I’m physically forcing my eyelids to stay open and by 5 I’m pretty much a vegetable the rest of the night. Bed time comes around 9, much to Shelton’s dismay, but I’m usually asleep quickly and he can continue reading his Google Reader to his heart’s content. I’ve done hot baths, heating pads, changed the temperature of the room, slept in different kinds of PJs and taken Tylenol PM—all moot efforts.
Additionally, I believe the nesting bug has settled in for sure. This morning, my “adorable” husband wrote this on his Twitter:
Third trimester starts today. Nesting mode is in full effect and comes with the “there’s only one way and yours isn’t it” hormone.
Seriously?! We’ve been together for nine years. If he hasn’t learned to fold laundry, put away dishes, wash the dog, etc. the way I’ve gently encouraged him to do, it’s not my fault. He’s not a slow learner, but when it comes to domestic issues, Shelton come on!
In all fairness, as I mentioned last week I believe, my pregnancy hasn’t turned me into a mushy crying sap pile, I’ve become a bitch. I know this is true because I have days where I don’t even want to be around myself and I can’t believe the things I’m doing and saying. I feel like I don’t have any real control over it, yet I know I do, and so I try my damndest to just be nice. Being nice, it’s like the simplest concept we humans have to grasp. Nevertheless, I’m nesting. I want everything clean. But not clean like that, clean like this. I want everything reorganized. But not like that, like this. That banister that we’ve NEV-ER dusted, why don’t we hit that with a Swiffer and some Pledge. And we need more lists. There aren’t enough lists. Everything should be on a list. I’m a neurotic mess that really just needs a beer. A very tall, very cold, very frothy, fresh from the tap Blue Moon… or Bass… Oooooo or Samuel Adams Summertime.
Sorry, tangent. I joke about the Doritos and pizza cravings, but I really haven’t had any cravings during my pregnancy, except beer. Every time I’m around someone drinking a beer I just want to crawl on their lap and smell their breath. So many people have said, Oh, you can have just one. No I can’t. For two reasons… 1) That’s like giving someone ONE potato chip. Give me a freaking break. 2) Hi, I paid TWENTY GRAND for my baby. If she’s born without one of her toenails or her earlobes are growing on top instead of on bottom, I’ll forever feel guilt ridden about having had just that one beer because look what it did to her!
No for now, I’ll just get my kicks by picking on Shelton, eating pizza and creating a new blueprint for the pantry.