Tomorrow marks 2 months until my official due date, so I can officially say I am 7 months pregnant. Why does SEVEN MONTHS PREGNANT sound so much more painful than 6 months pregnant?
BECAUSE IT IS.
Fatigue has officially set in at this point. Hoisting the extra poundage around is cumbersome, and at times I wish I could take a break from the belly. Just for a couple hours, take it off, like a cantankerous wired bra. Or hand it to Andrew for a few hours, like a seahorse or penguin egg. I am not sure how my back will handle more weight at this point, but I see a future with me carrying around a foldable stool. You know, for relief from lengthy periods of standing two minutes or more. Sometimes I forget I can't just jump out of bed per usual, completely forgetting about the extra centimeters protruding from me horizontally, and I end up stumbling around, trying to regain balance. I also am continuously shocked when I walk past my reflection to see, HOLY COW that chick is PREGGO. Oh wait, that's me. Will the waddling ever stop?
The Raspberry is a fit of movement, at all times, EXCEPT when someone WANTS to feel her moving. She makes a liar out of me at those precise moments, naturally. Right now, I am by myself at home, avoiding reading another case for management control, and she is perpetually kicking me up and center, where I imagine my sternum once was. But wait! If one of my friends or family members comes at me, hand outstretched to belly, she is quiet and innocuous, no where to be found. I am going to have to have a word with her about this upon her exit from The Womb. We don't make Mama look like a jackass, ok? She does that well enough on her own.
A tiny trace has appeared this week on the left side of my stomach, almost undetectable, except that I can see nothing other than belly, so it is glaringly obvious to me. This mark is so tiny, maybe half a centimeter long, but I am deathly afraid that may be the start of a stretch mark. I have religiously applied belly butter to my skin since the 4-month mark, and God Help Me, I hate stretch marks. The belly butter application frequency has now increased to 3 times a day, and I am considering just caking the whole area in Vaseline and saran wrap, like in the opening sequence of "John & Kate Plus 8."
Nesting has officially begun. By nesting, I mean complete psychosis. While Andrew was away last week, I found myself cleaning the upstairs like it was preparation for the President's arrival, jumping from task to task with frantic A.D.D., until I realized I was cleaning the jets in the tub with a toothbrush and some chlorine-ridden cleaning agent. PROBABLY NOT HEALTHY. I managed to move most of the stuff out of the guest room, so now, we can officially bring things into what will be Raspberry's room. Andrew's father is building all the furniture for the room, and he finished the crib this week, so I believe that is cause for celebration. Hooray! She will not have to sleep in a dresser drawer upon arrival! Not that I am prepared in any other way really, but some how this seems like a step in the right direction.
In the next week, we have Infant CPR classes and Infant Care classes at the hospital I will be delivering at. In our house, these classes are known as, "Marysia doesn't know anything about caring for babies" classes. Because truly, I am paralyzed with fear at the idea of having to dress, bathe, diaper or swaddle anything that small and fragile. We didn't schedule the "how to have a baby class" until about a month from delivery, so hopefully, by then, I will not be as nervous about it. HAH. RIGHT.
Editor's Note: I look forward to copious amounts of baby butt. Because I can't get enough of wrinkly, little tooshies.