I’ve been trying to work on my story this morning, but all I can think about is how incredibly rotund I feel today. Today, I resemble the Ghostbusters Marshmallow Man.
Ok, maybe I just feel like I resemble him.
I know I should consider myself lucky and I do. Truly. This pregnancy has pretty much been a breeze. I was fortunate enough to skip morning sickness– not even one bout of nausea. I’m still jogging and working full-time and thus far have managed to delay the dreaded swelling of the ankles, feet, face. I haven’t developed a single new stretch mark yet and my skin is supple and soft (thank you, Palmer’s).
So why am I whining? Because I’m tired. I’m tired and I want a foot rub and I want to be able to sleep at night. I’m tired of pushing myself, but I know if I don’t, I’ll end up fifteen or twenty pounds over the recommended amount. I’m already tired of having a little one’s entire backside up in my diaphragm because she’s transverse and refuses to move into a proper head-down position.
I want to breathe again. I want to tie my sneakers without grunting and gasping for air. I want my normal sized thighs and butt instead of these massive trunks I’ve acquired. I want to do sit-ups again. That’s right- I WANT to do sit-ups. I loved my abs. I want to go hiking again– real hiking, not a bunny-hill type of trail– without feeling like I’m going to pass out. I want to feel like a woman again (in so many ways…). Sexy. Strong. Confident.
There’s more, but really– what’s the point?
I’m blessedly healthy and I’m having a healthy baby girl. That’s what’s important, right? The weight and breathing problems and clumsiness and forgetfulness will subside. Sooner or later, I’ll return to normal. Whatever that is.
Ok. My rant is over.
Back to my writing.