Why hello, the person who Googled “40 weeks pregnant yesterday cleaned everythink today very tired and moody” – this is a blog you oh-so-obviously need to read. Were you looking for help? Advice? A cleaning service? Perhaps a free Cymbalta trial?
Today, apparently, is the first day of the next four (to potentially five!) weeks of unwelcome (although not unfriendly) stares by strangers, co-workers, and passers-by. And no, it has nothing to do with the ice cream bar in my hand. I don’t think? As if they’re wondering when my due date is, or if I should be frequenting the lunch spot that only serves cold cuts. Breakin’ the law, breakin’ the law. At least I know that I’m not longer a contestant on “Fat or Pregnant?”
Today, I feel largely pregnant and more feminine than I would ever like to admit, and more than I ever have before. The cargo pants and Crocs can’t even help me. Maybe I should put on my baseball hat right now, go outside and spit. Yesterday, I was having daydreams of wearing the wardrobe of my old self. I sighed as I thought of jeans, a belt, my black boots with laces, and a polo shirt. SIGH. I know it’s “almost over.” I also know that the moment Vegas pops out and greets the world will NOT be followed by the day I can wear all of my pre-pregnancy gear. Believe me, the veteran moms are ever so helpful in reminding me that I’ll be dedicated to this wardrobe long after my 40 weeks are up. Thanks moms!
Instead of being a grumpy Gus, I’m trying to be here not letting my spirit get killed, which is a side-effect of the last month of pregnancy, says my friend. You know, spirit-killing… and hemorrhoids. A couple of weeks ago, when I walked into the pet store and had to ask for help buying a 40 lb bag of dog food (and getting it in my car), I felt like I finally had embraced my pregnancy limitations. At the time, I didn’t feel bad about it either. But now here in the days of the “will I even FIT in that booth?” followed by watching my wife be the order-waiter, drink-getter, tray-carrier, I long for my old days of auto-chivalrous behavior. I’ve been demoted to activities like sitting on the porch with my feet up, drinking lemonade, while my wife mows the lawn. The humanity.
Once upon a time, my wife had ankle surgery that put her out of commission for two months. The first two weeks, she was confined to the bed, then she slowly moved into crutching along, using a Roll-A-Bout, or a wheelchair, depending on the activity. Then there was physical therapy. Did I mention that our dog puppy was only 3 and 1/2 months old when she went under the knife? Being the sole caretaker during that time drove me to therapy. Literally. The dog walking, the breakfast/lunch/dinner cooking, the water and pain pill fetching. Therapy. No, this doesn’t mean that I’m due mine. But it does mean that I completely understand how the next four weeks could easily kill her spirit just as easy as it could kill mine. This doesn’t get me any closer to preventing it from happening, but acknowledging it is important, I think.
So hey wife – thanks for opening the doors, walking at my glacial pace, mowing the lawn, weed-whacking, walking the dog, scooping the cat boxes, driving, keeping the A/C on, drilling for toggle bolts, cooking us sensible dinners, sleeping through my tossing and turning, and not mocking my demands for ice pops, reassurance, hugs, and witch hazel. Love, and sitz baths – your wife.