I’m supposed to be writing. Kicking into high gear and churning out page after page of captivating fiction. Developing storylines and living out my days with fleshy characters. Full of focus and drive and abundant creativity. This is how I envisioned my September, October, and November days would play out.
I’m supposed to be writing and instead I’m just trying to breathe. Trying to maneuver my pumpkin of a belly into some sort of position that will allow me to be ever-so-slightly comfortable. Trying to figure out how in the world my body is going to stretch to accomodate the remaining eight weeks of growth left. Wondering if I’m an evil momma for even occasionally wishing that this little (?) one pops out as soon as she’s considered full-term (for those who don’t know, it is at 37 weeks, which is only five weeks away!). I know the closer to 40 weeks the better, but today my belly aches, my ribs feel like they’re pulling apart, my boobs are killing me, I can’t get comfortable, and I can’t breathe, all of which make writing fiction (writing anything) a near-impossible feat.
I know, I know… it could be worse. Far worse.
But still… I’m pregnant and I think I’m allowed to complain a little.
I felt better while hiking over the weekend than I did while at rest today… Go figure.
So… what to do? My brain isn’t working like it was pre-preggers and my body and mind are far more exhausted now after a full day’s work than previously. I try to keep up on everything- exercise, work, writing- but something’s got to give. My body is forcing me to slow down now and that just pisses me off.
I know things won’t magically return to normal (whatever “normal” is) after Maya makes her way into this world, but at least I’ll have my body back to myself and can regain some sort of sense of control.
I’m counting the days…