I really think I’ve been a good pregnant person so far. I mean, I have my moments, but I’m typically an emotional wreck on a good day, so can you really blame me? As cliché as it sounds, I really am blessed to be pregnant, and I promised myself I wouldn’t complain. But I need to. Just this once, I swear (please don’t hold me to this).
Its hot. And its May. I don’t do heat well. I’m a sweater. A big, gross, nasty sweater. And my house gets hot. It was 85 degrees in here at 5:45pm. Did I mention that its May? We have window ACs, but, aside for the bedroom, they don’t really do much good in a raised ranch. At least I can be cool when I sleep. But getting out of the shower into the heat and being and staying sweaty all day? Kill me now.
The heat thing is something I dread every year, pregnant or not. I just know that the bigger I get, the worse it will be. And as I get bigger, it will get hotter. I tricked myself into thinking this would all be okay. I was incorrect.
The worst part is, I just can’t handle it. I don’t know if I’m truly more emotional, or if I think its just okay to sob because I’m pregnant. Case in point: Sunday morning, I get up, make coffee, do a few dishes. J got up and started making us breakfast, so I started chopping some veggies to grill later. I put them in a bag to marinate with oil & vinegar & spices, sealed the bag, and turned it upside down to distribute the seasonings. And it opened. All over the fridge, in a drawer, in the 7th circle of hell space between the stove and the fridge, in between my toes, on one of the only pairs of PJ pants I can squeeze my butt into, etc. And I had a complete, sobbing meltdown. This continued through Baxter trying to eat my toiletry kit from my gym bag (hey! I went last week!) and me not being able to get him under the bed because my stomach was in the way, and through me fixing the screen door for the umpteenth time while Baxter peed on the floor. At 10am (this was already a long morning), J put the air conditioner in the bedroom and put me to bed to cool down, literally and figuratively.
I may not make it through the next 13-1/2 weeks. If I have to tell the dog to stop eating the couch one more time, or pretend to be so excited about a kibble ball again, I may send him back to the side of the road he came from. Getting dressed is becoming more of an ordeal (and really, why sell spaghetti strap maternity dresses if you’re not going to sell strapless maternity bras? Also, why did I have to get all size small race tee shirts? Why didn’t my ego allow me to grab a large now and then? And why are J’s tee shirts just as small?) I’m becoming more and more tired as the days go on, and all I want to do is lay in bed and watch How I Met Your Mother re-runs. And yes, I know this will all get worse. People tell me this constantly. Thank you, by the way, that really helps my emotional well-being.
OK, I’m done.