Pregnancy Sucks

There, I said it.

Yes, I know we are lucky to have a second child on the way, especially given my Advanced Maternal Age. And yes it will all be worth it when I hold the little bugger in my hands a month from now. But at 35 weeks along, I swear I am ready to scrub up and perform the c-section myself.

I am aware that there are plenty of women out there who just loved being pregnant and sailed right through with no more than an amused shrug toward their Flintstone Feet, saggy pants and gas. I just happen to think that they are all either incredibly lucky to have had minimal symptoms, or they are clinically insane. Either way, I take my hat off to them. Which, by the way, is the only garment that still fits.

Again, for those who may rush to judge a blog entry by its title, let me repeat that I know I’m lucky to be pregnant and I know it will all be worth it and quickly forgotten in the end. My first pregnancy also sucked, but it was worth every second and unquestionably the most important and wonderful thing I’ve ever done. I get all that. It’s just that the physical symptoms of pregnancy suck enough to merit some venting, no?

Ok then, here we go.

1: My stomach is so painfully distended that it feels like I might literally rip open at any moment.
2: My ugly, over-priced maternity clothes don’t even cover my belly anymore.
3: I grow weary of watching everyone else savor sushi, mojitos, ceviche and that fancy cheese over there, while I sip my fizzy water and feign happiness.
4: My pants won’t stay up.
5: I cannot tie my own shoes.
6: Every time I attempt to fall asleep at night, my baby boy (whom shall now be given the pseudonym “The Edge”) insists on moving around so spastically that I’ve begun to suspect he has somehow gotten hold of an ice cream scoop and is plotting to scrape his way out. Then when I do fall asleep (often more than an hour later), I wake up because I have to pee and the whole charade begins again.
7: My feet are stinky. Ok, my feet have always been stinky, but as long as we’re venting…
8: I still get bouts of nausea, which at this point just seems a tad ridiculous.
9: Carrying a basket of laundry wears me out. Put this in the context that I used to be athletic enough to walk across the end zone at Michigan Stadium on my hands and you’ll maybe understand why this is particularly insulting.
10: I am gigantic.

There. Now that that’s out of the way, I hereby vow not to vent again about pregnancy symptoms on this blog.

Stay tuned for future venting about baby poop.

The Big, Fat Envelope

Rare is the occasion I get giddy about the mail. But among this week’s delivery of bank statements, Pavillion’s circulars, and duplicate Restoration Hardware catalogs, there was a big fat envelope from our top-choice preschool for Peapod! And for no reason at all, I attributed the enclosed acceptance letter to her sheer fabulousness.

Never mind that no one at the preschool has ever actually met Peapod. And never mind that she, herself, has never even set foot on campus. Her karma must just be so good that it seeped onto the application form and tumbled out for everyone in the school’s admission office to behold.

Ok, maybe not.

But when I skimmed those magical opening five words “It is with great pleasure…” my level of happiness was on par with that of the day I got my own fat envelope from Go Blue U.

Of course we immediately shared the happy news with Peapod. We explained to her about all the fun things she would do in preschool – Finger paints! Tricycles! Story time! -- and that classes would start in the fall. But because she has no sense of time and has been known to confuse “after your nap” with “the 4th of July,” she has taken to repeatedly asking “Can we go to preschool now?” and “Is this preschool?” when in fact it is the Target parking lot. But regardless of her confusion about the time-space continuum, she does seem genuinely enthused about the idea.

Let’s just hope that when the big first day of preschool arrives, we can be equally as excited then as we are now. And that I can actually let go of her hand and watch her walk in the door by her bad little self.