The last two weeks have been kind of rough.
Seemingly overnight, this kid decided to pack on the pounds, and then she promptly ran out of room.
For me, that’s meant (more) sleepless nights, new aches and pains (did I somehow forget having been kicked repeatedly in the groin?), and the onset of full-on waddling.
Yes, as in the routine complaints that come with the end of most pregnancies. I had them all — and more — during my pregnancy with Teddy, but I’d somehow convinced myself that because this baby was measuring two weeks smaller than he was, I’d be able to avoid them.
Until a couple of weeks ago, I mostly had.
I was still sleeping relatively well, still able to walk on the treadmill (albeit sloooowly), still able to eat more than three bites at a time. Those days seem to be over, and as many people have confirmed to me, I appear to have grown 10 sizes overnight.
So it’s been a bit of an abrupt transition to the world of normal late-term pregnancy. I’m tired, I’m achy, and my temperamental toddler doesn’t have much patience for his super-slow momma (and vice versa). I’ve been trying hard not to complain, but…I’m tired, I’m achy, and my kid has picked up a fun habit of drawing on the kitchen table.
And the complaints have just…kind of…slipped out. Those that I haven’t said out loud have run through my head plenty of times over.
Last night brought a much-needed attitude adjustment.
October 15 was, I was reminded, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. It was a day to remember the losses that so many people don’t — can’t — talk about. A day to come out of the shadows. A day to empathize with those who are still struggling with their losses.
And a day to appreciate the family I am so fortunate to have, after being unsure that I’d ever be lucky enough to complain about the aches and pains that come with being more than 37 weeks pregnant. After Teddy (pregnancy #4) was born, I was *sure* that I’d never be here again. And yet, here we are with pregnancy #5, this bonus pumpkin baby.
Last night, as I read some of the remembrances, I was once again keenly, acutely aware of how many women would kill to be in my place right now, however uncomfortable and sleepless that place may be. Three years ago, I was one of them.
I only have 11 days left to appreciate the gift that is this pregnancy #5. (Granted, they’re long days when you wake up at 4 a.m.) And as this Scary Mommy post suggested, I’m going to try to make the most of it.
Even when I can’t sleep.
Even when my hips ache.
Even when able-bodied, young men race me for the last seat on the metro. (OK, you’ve got to give me a mulligan on complaining about that one. I mean, COME ON. Were these people raised in a barn? If I do nothing else right in this life, I will raise my children to be polite to people on public transportation.)
I’m going to try to make the most of it, because I owe it to myself — the me of three, four, and five years ago who wanted nothing more than to be here today.