I had several paragraphs in draft lamenting how my body has finally changed and the aches and pains that come with it and worrying about feeling guilty since I know I should be on my knees every day thanking the good lord for my good luck in being pregnant at all, and then I thought, so what?
If I want to bitch about it, then I should be able to bitch about it. Why should anyone think that I should be crossing myself over and over because a hemorrhoid (or a multitude of them) decided to bleed, giving me what I’m sure was a mild heart-attack when I went to the bathroom? Or how I’ve noticed in a completely random exploration of my body, that I have nipple- lint/jam? Or that I’ve thrown up in my mouth more times than in the toilet because my stomach has seemingly overnight eloped with my heart so any burp, harmless yet enjoyable 6 months ago, now is my cue to find a water-proof receptacle?
Maybe I should even be jumping for joy (if I could without stunning myself into temporarily paralysis with the inevitable Braxton Hicks) that my husband said to me this weekend, as I safely bitched to him, that I did "get pretty big really fast", considering that a month ago I was worried that the baby was going to be of gecko proportions at term.
Of course, let’s not leave off the fact that by the time I take off my socks at the end of the day, that the pattern of the socks is left perfectly imprinted into my foot. Now I’m not talking about the tight-but-stretchy opening of the sock leaving a pattern. I’m saying that the PATTERN of the sock (let’s say today – argyle) is imprinted into my skin, because the bloatiness is not content to micromanage my abdomen or face or fingers.
I hope you will bear with my overall malcontent I have with my body, which I realize is not going to get any better over the next 12 weeks. Especially since my diet has consisted of left-over Easter candy I’ve hidden from XBoy and evenings filled with CSI marathon showings on Spike. Maybe when I come down from my sugar high, I’ll feel a little more remorse.