During the summer, we were actively
trying to conceive. I found out I was pregnant at all of three days in.
Thankfully, unlike my first pregnancy, this time we’ve reached “full term” or
37 weeks. Bookended by those two facts, it feels like I’ve been pregnant my
entire life.
People I haven’t seen in awhile
are like, “You’re still pregnant?” Sometimes it’s fun to mess with those people
and tell them I delivered two months ago and watch the horror crawl across
their faces. But mostly I just smile, say that I have three weeks until my due
date, and waddle away muttering obscenities.
Did I willingly sign up to be
pregnant again? Yes. Was I aware of the gestational period length of our
species? Yes. Was I prepared for the discomfort and inelegance of the last
month? Most definitely no.
All manner of surprises have
been waiting for me this time around. Weekly pelvic exams! More blood tests!
More time for weight gain! Swelling! Yahoo! I’m beginning to think that delivering my first child at
35 weeks was a present, not the worst thing to ever happen to me. We’ve agreed
that this will be our last child, so assuming that everything goes smoothly, this
is the last time I’ll be pregnant. I try to remember this as I struggle for
breath after walking across the room.
Kudos to all women who have gone
the distance of a 40 week pregnancy. I never knew what an effort this last leg
was. Hopefully my next post will be about how I went into labor at 37.5 weeks.
Thank you to my sister in law
for taking the only belly picture of this entire pregnancy. I know I’ll enjoy
looking at this at some point.
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