We are eagerly awaiting the arrival of our sixth (and last) baby, another boy, and I have reached THAT point in pregnancy.
There comes THAT point in every pregnancy, when the days feel like they’re 2,000 hours long because of the other littles demanding time and attention, and the nights feel like they’re 4,000 hours long because you’re staring at a clock, hoping, hoping, hoping you can just, for once, for these last few days, fall asleep and stay asleep, since there is no promise of that once a baby comes.
You know you have solidly reached THAT point in pregnancy when:
You can’t turn over at night without moaning at the pain of trying.
You wake your husband and ask him to give you a little push, because you’re stuck on your back and you’re starting to panic and there’s the vena cava, and why do you suddenly feel so lightheaded?
You get up to go to the bathroom 40 times a night, and every single time you wish you had a walker to lean on, because your back seized up while you were lying down and you can’t even walk now.
In fact, every time you sit for longer than 15 minutes, you wish you had a walker.
Your back feels like every bone is broken.
When your husband complains about how much his back hurts, you snap, “Oh, please. Don’t even talk to me about a backache.” Because he really has no idea.
Every time you sneeze, you pee a little. Every time you laugh, you pee a little. Every time you choke on the water that went down the wrong way, you pee a little.
Your children tell you your belly is the biggest thing they’ve ever seen. Bigger than the moon and the basketball they played with in P.E. today and even bigger than the sumo boppers they got for Christmas.
Your belly is so big it forgets how to hold itself and starts sagging toward the floor.
You’re bent at a 45-degree angle (backwards) to counterbalance the baby weight on your front side.
You actually practice labor squats, bearing the hip pain, because surely the weight of the baby will break your water instead of your back like it’s been doing.
You pull a muscle trying to walk up the stairs.
You dream of running.
You wonder if running might induce labor.
You seriously consider going for a run.
You try to do your pregnancy yoga, and you get stuck on the floor.
You comb your closet for clothes that still fit, a shirt that at least covers your dropping belly, but there is nothing. So you tie a few scarves around your middle. They double as a belly bra, anyway.
You can no longer see your feet on the next step in front of you when you’re coming down the stairs, so you just hope you don’t miss one.
You nearly face plant when you trip going up the stairs (because you also can’t see your feet going up) and run the rest of the way, trying to keep your top-heavy balance, and then you laugh hysterically when it’s all over because you didn’t just die. Maybe you induced your own labor.
You can’t even pretend you’re a peppy, beautiful pregnant woman anymore. You can’t rally. You can only drag.
You waddle without even realizing it until your husband kindly points it out.
You can’t reach the silverware at the bottom of your sink while doing dishes without standing on your tiptoes, setting your belly on the counter and then hunching down to pick them up.
Your laptop will no longer fit on your lap.
You burn your stomach trying to cook grilled cheese sandwiches.
Pregnancy is a wonderful, beautiful time, until those last brutal weeks, when we vow to never, ever, ever do this again, never ever.
But then it will be over and we’ll have a tiny precious baby in our arms, and we’ll fall so deeply and irreversibly in love we’ll forget.
And it’s necessary to forget, of course it is. But sometimes it’s also necessary to remember, so we can keep that last-one vow, for whatever reason it needs to be kept.
So this is my reminder. Last one.(?)
