Thirty weeks people.
Thirty weeks, thirty-one inches of belly bump, twenty-five pounds on me, three pounds on the baby, and seven pounds of brownies in or near me at all times.
I love you so much it's ridiculous. If you didn't cause my heart to race, and the spot right in between my eyes to break out into a weird third-eye-revisiting-Jr-High-break-out-horror I'd be eating a batch of you every day, instead of one every other day. Love, Me.)
Here's me being super pumped up on brownies and totally excited about being thirty weeks pregnant.
So just typing that sentence, "Ten Weeks Left" is so crazy exciting and shocking I can't stand it. My mom had me at thirty three weeks instead of the standard forty, and the thought of this baby being here in less that three weeks would put me into a mild coma, and then I'd pass out in my coma, and probably do something horribly embarrassing like fart really loud when everyone was coming to visit me, because that's something I would totally do if I had no control. I'd blast and then my loving partner would be like, "There she sleeps, the farty mother of my child." End love story.
Not only did she have me seven weeks early, she had twins seven weeks early! Here I am nervous about one and when I call to tell her that she says, "One! What a luxury. I can't imagine how much freedom you'll have!"
"But it's still a baby!"
"Yes but it's only one baby. I had twins. Twice!"
"But I'm not having twins."
"I'm not ever going to feel sorry for you, no matter what you say."
Ok, so that's not exactly what she says, she's much more consoling (maybe) but it feels like that's what she's about to say at any moment. And with good reason, I'm not gonna argue that.
Anyway, all those books and people that give you advice on pregnancy? Mostly they're sort of right, sometimes they're dead wrong, and usually it's all just specific to them. Which is exactly what this statement is about to be, bear that in mind, but what all those people/books tend to agree on? The second trimester is a glorious break, where you feel fantastic and glow-y and amazing, and then the third trimester hits, and all hints of glow have been replaced with pre-teen like breakouts. All fantastic feelings have been replaced with the odd sensation of all your organs being squeezed into places only your bones should be, and that amazing feeling of being pregnant? That's just constipation now.
Since I was so in love with the second trimester, I refused to believe the third was not going to hold up as gloriously by pretending I wasn't suddenly exhausted beyond belief five minutes after waking up in the morning. Or hiding the fact that suddenly I was craving melons and donuts again like I'd just smoked a boatload of pot. Or thinking that I was totally justified in having crazy emotional outbursts at the father of my child for breathing too loud because after it it was crazy loud breathing!
But no. The third trimester has officially hit. And I am back to taking three hour naps, eating like a wild mongoose, and getting emotional when I see a gopher run across the street because there was the POSSIBILITY that he could have gotten hit by a car. Not that he did, just that it COULD have happened is enough to send me into uncontrollable sobs for a good half hour.
And here's why father's-to-be should be considered for sainthood. Because once in a while (every day) something will come up (in my head only) that will be so horrific (not bad at all) that it will send me into a complete and utter break down (complete and utter) for about five minutes (a lifetime) until suddenly my hormones shift, and I sniff, get over it, and go about the rest of my day as if nothing ever happened. (Repeat)
Like the other day when I went into a panic because there was no more Luna Bars. Trying to keep my cool I whispered,"Did you eat the last Luna Bar? DID YOU!?!" But behind the panicked whisper was the fire of a thousand raging bulls. Because clearly I would not live through the next two minutes without a protein bar that's supposed to taste like cookie dough but actually tastes like what would happen to cookie dough if you forgot to add sugar, or anything else tasty, mixed it with an old hairbrush and left it to bake in the sun for seven hours. Never mind the fact that we had a house full of food I myself had just purchased. That wasn't food. That was just bags with things in it. Things that were not a protein bar with inspirational sayings on it's wrapper that I had to eat right this second before I simultaneously threw up, passed out, and killed whomever ate the last MOTHER LOVING LUNA BAR!!!
**pause while loving partner stares and watches this dance of crazy in my eyes**
**continued crazy staring from me**
Then, after some consideration of the deadly-weapons-within-reach scenario in the living room, he dared to speak:
"Oh you know what?"
"halksdfjoslkz" (I am no longer coherently speaking English, as I'm about to faint from hunger)
"I have the last Luna Bar in my bag. I never ate i-"
Never in your life have you seen a white girl run so fast. I ate half the bar before I even had time to pull it out of his bag.
So, I've reached crazy town again. But at least I'm not pukey and nauseous like the first trimester! I take my victories where I can get them.
Plus when I'm in bed napping, and eating chili cheese Fritos with cottage cheese, I've got this little sucker to keep me company.
No joke - he even eats some Fritos with me. How a cat can simultaneously love eating live mice, and a tasty chili chip is totally weird behavior. But I'm pregnant. I'm not about to judge anyone else's eating habits right now.