I am eight months pregnant. If you’ve been following along, you know it’s my third baby. If you’re new here, hi! I’m eight months pregnant with my third baby! I feel overdue for some good whine. Buckle in, it’s go time.
Now that the baby bump is obviously more than bloat from a ham sandwich, I’m getting comments from the public, whereas previously I was really just getting cautious glances towards my middle. I could read the look on people’s faces; “whoa, maybe she’s pregnant or maybe she’s getting fat”. I know that it’s hard to tell. Having two back-to-back pregnancies has done wonders for my body. Wondrous triumphs in swelling, bloating and weight gain. Is there a Nobel Prize for maternal sacrifices in pregnancy? No? Well work on it then. My chins need validation.
I now have to wear ankle boots or spring for “wide calf” knee high leather boots because my legs are like expanding tree trunks and my leather boots don’t even zip up my calf. Not that my old shoes matter anymore since my feet grow a half size with every pregnancy, and no, they don’t “shrink back down”. I started having kids in a comfortable size nine; I’ve worked my way up to an eleven. If I had a red nose I could make it official and just be a clown. I wonder how much their shoes cost.
Talk about first world problems.
Also, all of the maternity clothes that I salvaged from my last pregnancy are a full size too small, because I still had twenty pounds to lose from my last adorable baby bump when I started growing this one. I am far too cheap to buy any more maternity clothes, so I wear long tank tops under too-tight maternity tops and huge yoga pants that I roll all the way up my belly. I look like Winnie the Pooh, except with yoga pants. I’m Winnie the Poohs’ soccer mom.
I digress, let’s travel back to the comments I get.
When I’m out shopping with my kids at Target or the grocery store my toddler is usually running away from me and my three year old is usually crying for fruit snacks. It’s times like these that some smart ass decides to chime in;
“Oh boy. You’re busy. Your hands sure are full.”
YEP. They sure are. Glad you noticed. Now kindly get the fuck out of my way unless you have something awesome to say, like; “Oh boy, you’re a rock star! You look amazing! All those kids and you’re still so put together! I didn’t even notice the sweat on your upper lip!” Or maybe lying isn’t your thing so you could, I don’t know, grab a bag of groceries and put it in my car for me if you absolutely cannot abstain from making an asinine remark you kind stranger, you.
Or my favorite comment ever, and I think it came from a friend, not a stranger but with my pregnancy brain firing on one busted piston I wouldn’t honestly remember if my own mom said it. It’s a doozy nonetheless.
“Well at least you can’t get pregnant while you’re pregnant!”
What? Do you think I’m having any sex right now? Yes, my two young children sleep effortlessly through the night and my energy stores are so high that by nights end I am RARING to go. I don’t even care that the nature of the statement is super personal, because it’s that ridiculous.
Imagine me, sitting in bed sweating after a two hour bedtime battle with two kids under four, with my feet propped up on a pillow, laying on my left side while putting away a whole box of pop tarts. Move over, Angelina Jolie’s leg, there’s a new sex symbol in town.
This pregnancy experience is not much different or more spectacular than my previous pregnancies. I know the drill; it’s all pretty standard text book stuff. Sciatic pain, pelvic pain, thigh pain, Charlie horses all night long, constipation, lots of swelling, peeing my pants more than Lisa Rina does in her new depends campaign, and my varicose veins continue to spread and ache.
The only new and newsworthy item is the varicose vein that has spread into my groin. My doctors warned me this could happen from the beginning, and there’s no real preventative care. You just get to suffer until you’re ready for this contraption to aid the swelling and discomfort.
I’m like pregnant batman, but unfortunately the chic purple leotard is not included. Neither is my cape.
I walk around with searing, pulling pain in my crotch all day long. I expect this is what it feels like when men get a nut-punch. Maybe that should be its own book, “What To Expect When You’re Punched In The Nuts”. The pain is the only reason I signed up for something called “vulvar maternity support”.
This pregnancy also comes with the demands and care of two other little kids. It’s less than ideal relaxation.
With my first pregnancy I slept all the livelong day. And everyone around me was super supportive of my naps. These days I try and put my head on a pillow and someone screams for yogurt, or spills yogurt, or falls off of a chair. (Seriously kids, knock it off. Mom’s tired.)
People used to ask me how I was feeling: “oh wow, look at you, you’re glowing. How do you feel?” but now that I’m on baby number three the general public is like “whatever, you obviously love having pregnancy cankles and vulvar support, otherwise you would quit getting knocked up.”
Not only am I not getting offered a free seat when I’m out in public, but if there is a seat available, my kids steal it from me anyways.
It stands to reason that the more kids you have the less sympathy and compassion people have for you. I can basically hear people’s looks when I grunt from a ligament pulling, or moan from a dull back ache. (It’s like I have ESPN or something.) I suspect people are thinking; “toughen up. If you can’t handle it then maybe you shouldn’t have gotten pregnant”.
Maybe I’m putting my own issues onto other people, or maybe people can be jerks. I know from experience because I used to be a jerk too. Until one day, it was me who needed the support and encouragement and found it nowhere.
I feel like a social leper. Pregnancy isn’t airborne (thank God) but people steer clear of me like I am something to fear. “Crikey, there’s the rare breed who dared to have more than two kids, avert your eyes before she asks you to babysit”.
Having more than two kids makes you ripe for a public shunning. Even though after one baby is born the world cannot wait for baby number two. If there’s one thing almost all women have experienced it’s the pressure to procreate to appease others.
Before your stitches even heal your family is begging you to get pregnant again, but you shouldn’t fall for that shtick unless they are seriously considering buying the house next door, baby sitting weekly and helping you run out for diapers and milk twice a week. You should also take into consideration the gender of your first born. Because everyone expects you to miraculously produce one child of each gender and be “complete” in your procreational success. If your second child is not the preferred opposite gender of the first born, you will inevitably be asked if you will “keep trying”.
You probably should take off your sock and stuff it into the mouth of the person asking you that question. For they are now dead to you, you do not need them, move on.
When you end up with two kids of the same gender and a third baby on the way you might hear this; “well if you have three you have to have four otherwise the balance will be off”.
Say what now, crazy? Who’s balance will be off? Yours. Your balance will be off permanently because I am going to shin-kick some sense into you if you ever say that again.
I need a village. It takes one to raise a child I hear, and I have three kids to raise. So I probably need a Quiverfull cult with the Duggars at the helm to come and rescue me, rub my feet and tell me I’m pretty.
I is smart. I is kind. I is important.
My stomach has a brain growing inside of it. Let’s try and embrace that for the next few weeks while I embrace the hell out of some pop tarts in my judgment-free bed.
And when you see me at Target wrangling my kids and waddling as fast as I can with shortened breath, you can say “hey lady, good job”.
And that’ll do.