At 38 weeks, I’m over this.
Like willing to drink Heinz 57 Sauce and castor oil… or host a séance, or whatever your Memaw swears will get this baby outta me.
Misery is Mother Nature’s way of preparing women for vaginal delivery or cesarean or whatever your birth-de-jour might be.
All of the fear and anxiety is outweighed (LITERALLY) by the discomfort felt in the final weeks.
I am desparate to feel like my old self again.
Here’s what I miss most…
I miss being able to walk up a flight up stairs like it wasn’t Mount F-ing Kilimanjaro.
I miss going a day without popping stool softeners like M&Ms.
I miss putting on my own socks.
I miss my crotch.
I miss Terry’s Tuna Roll smothered in spicy mayo.
I miss Pinot Noir.
I miss smelling grilled meat without gagging.
I miss leaving my house without fear of heatstroke or Zika or public leakage.
I miss my old clothes, my skinny ankles and wearing the wedding band that no longer fits over my knuckle. (No, I’m not having a bastard child. My fingers are sausages.)
But sometimes when I lay very still, I forget about the things I miss.
I’m distracted by the mango inside me. Or is she an eggplant this week?
My eggplant glides around the sand dune formerly known as my belly button.
She ziplines along the black racing stripe leading to the crotch I can no longer see.
She hiccups and flutters and blackbelt-kicks my bladder.
And despite all the commotion, I know I’ll miss this too.
I’ll miss being able to keep her safe.
I’ll miss watching her grow inside of me – is that an elbow or a butt cheek?
I’ll miss hearing her heartbeat – thinking it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.
I’ll miss the anticipation and magic. All the feels that come with looking like a Teletubby.
And even though I’ll be able to eat sushi and drink wine and touch my toes again…
I’ll miss this.