Ah, pregnancy. Between growing a tiny human, work, class and trying to make Jethro do the dishes more than once a week (I mean, REALLY, son?) my second trimester was busy. And fun, though I wish I’d realized how fun it was at the time. Seriously, I could be 6 months pregnant for the rest of my life and be perfectly fine with it. Your belly is showing but still small enough to maneuver around, your energy is up, you’re fairly perky even when you’re tired…I was in love with being pregnant. **
Then came month 7. *sigh*
And things slowed down at work and with school, thank goodness. And instead of picking up the slack I left off in the last few months, I’ve been awful…cocoon-y. I mean I do things, but when I’m not doing something, I am indulging myself in Not Doing A Damn Thing. It feels guilty, but I just can’t work up the urge to care about much other than staring at the ceiling fan sometimes. I’m waiting for the nesting urge to set in, the baby’s room still needs to be done and those walls aren’t going to decorate themselves. Then again, the baby won’t give a damn about his room probably until he’s 5 or 6, so the decorating is mostly for Jethro and I. And so we don’t get pitied when people see how bare the room is and think we hate our child.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still very excited to be pregnant and to have Tater. But my theatre kids will get me when I say that it’s like the week before tech week in a show. You’re off book, you know your blocking and all you have to do is keep rehearsing until tech week, where things will get new and exciting and you’ll finally see your show come together. But the week before tech week just BLOWS. Even though you still love the show, you’re just TIRED of it. You’re not ready to perform but you’re itching to take that next step…which you can’t do to the best of your ability without this last week of rehearsals. So you keep going, you wait, you fake enthusiasm when people ask, “How’s the show!??” and you try not to stab your fellow cast member because OH MY GOD, you do you HAVE to breathe like that backstage EVERY NIGHT?
For those of you who didn’t get that, i.e. everyone except like four of you, I’m antsy and tired. Hence the need to cocoon and stay off the internet because who really wants to hear me whine three times a week? And believe me, this is whining, so no giving me sympathy. Making a baby is hard work, but there are people out there who are just as far along as me with WAY more responsibility and problems that are getting along just fine and blogging every day and just generally being the same as they were sans-baby gut.
Anyway, enough with the whining! If y’all wanted that, you’d be trolling LiveJournal and looking for people with animated icons of purple dragons crying a single sparkling tear with Muse lyrics flashing at the bottom who post about how much they hate their parents and how no one truly gets their Twilight fanfic.
A few new developments in babyland:
We had a second sonogram and he’s STILL not a pony. The rotten child wouldn’t give us a good profile but had NO problem showing us that he was still a boy. But we did find out he has thick chunky legs and hair on the back of his head, but not the top.
So thick legs and a mullet with an attitude and a propensity to flash his junk as much as possible.
I’m not having a baby OR pony; I’m having a Whitesnake roadie. *sigh*
I’d been convinced that Tater was breech still because I hadn’t felt anything above my belly button in terms of kicking. Turns out I was kinda right; he’s head down but folded in half so his feet are up around his head. I’d been getting a LOT of cervical kicks, but apparently they were less kicks and more punches.
Yes, my child has been punching me in the vag for the last few months.
I know he’s a fetus and all, but it still feel very RUDE. And awkward when he does it hard enough to make you jump and the person whose document you’re notarizing is all, “You okay?” and then you have to say, “Oh, just the baby!” and not mention that said-baby just upper-cutted your no-no from the inside and they’re all, “Oh, you’re pregnant?” and then you hate everything and everybody for about fifteen minutes.
Anyway. Baby. Folded in half, so no rib kicks. I’m sure he’ll tuck his legs up as he gets bigger, but we’ll see. I’m just more concerned that, now that he can see inside the womb, he’s spending major fetal development staring at his dong the whole time. That can’t be healthy… Also, when he has the hiccups (which is like every other day and is the craziest feeling,) he’d probably kneeing himself in the face… Just seems like the kind of thing that sets the stage for him to be the guy wearing Greek letters and holding a bottle of R&R while hanging out of a convertible on his way to Senor Frog’s and screaming, “WOOOOOOOOOO! CLASS OF ’32 RULES!!!”
Lord help me.
And speaking of kicks, child has got some FORCE now. Jethro was trying to hear the heartbeat the other day and kept getting kicked in the face. You can see them from the outside now, which is fun, but Tater still has some Michigan J. Frog tendencies; he’ll do some crazy kick thing while I’m laying down that will bounce a book off my stomach, but the second I put Jethro’s hand there to feel…nothing. This monkey dances for NO ONE.
Physically, I’m good, just TIRED. Working around this stomach isn’t too much harder than it has been, but things are starting to get more difficult that were fine a week ago. Like climbing stairs. And getting out cars. Or putting on socks. All take more effort that I think is necessary and that is irritating. Not because I can’t do it, but because I have TWO MORE MONTHS. If I were further along, I’d be fine with flailing like a T-Rex while trying to reach my feet. But ALREADY? That’s just craziness, yo. DO NOT LIKE.
See? Whining again. Y’all need to stop me…
Baby news aside, I have discovered in my poetry class that I am not a bad poet. Apparently, I have a good ear, I use synecdoche and metonymy to great effect, my metaphors flow with obvious but fresh connections and I have a strong sense of rhythm.
AWWWW, YEAH. That’s right, y’all. I’m a literary bada** and had no idea.
Anyway, I hope to clean it up and send some poetry off fairly soon to see if they can be published; I’ll keep y’all updated.
Unless they get soundly and regularly rejected. Then we shall never speak of this again.
And now, I leave you with a bit of fun. Have you seen Young Me Now Me, a blog with photos that replicate a picture of themselves when they were younger? My mom discovered an unintentional one of my father and I when she was sifting through photos last year; the top one was taken by my mom when I was about a month old (before my dad shipped back off to Okinawa) and the bottom was taken by my photographer Brandi Thompson (who is AMAZING and you should hire) at my wedding.
Weird part? Baby picture is dated September 1979 and my wedding was September 2009. EXACTLY 30 YEARS LATER.
Cue spooky, yet inspirational, music here.
Anyway, moppets, how’s tricks?
**Your mileage may vary. Don’t come yellin’ at me when you’re six months pregnant and it sucks.