So I think I’ve reached the part where incubating an offspring becomes hard work. Ever since the end of the sicky part, I’d been enjoying the glowy part and generally feeling rather fab and pleased with myself for finding it all relatively easy.
Haha. Hahahaaaaaa *thud* (that’s me keeling over with the effort of laughing drily. Don’t bother waiting for me to get up, I’m bound to be flailing on the floor like an upended dung beetle for at least an hour).
It’s not… bad, as such. At 33 weeks, I am still working (mutter, mutter, roll on this Friday when glorious mat leave begins!), I am still managing to get dressed, and stand, and waddle walk, and bark orders. Really, plenty of women have it way, way worse than me. My complaints are of the common garden variety, thankfully.
But I confess that it’s getting, physically, rather tiresome. I won’t bore you with too many details- you’ve heard it all before from every other heavily pregnant lady. But here’s just one nugget: did you know that at as your body prepares for birth, your pelvis starts to sort of cleave itself open like a spatchcocked game bird? You’re welcome, and yes, it hurts.
Meanwhile, I’m extremely tired; it takes a good 30 seconds to negotiate rolling over in bed, when the Bean decides to let me sleep, that is- as far as she is concerned, there’s a party in my uterus every night, and the theme is sharp elbows and knees; and it’s really quite hard to negotiate the usual movements of life- standing up, sitting down etc- without the aid of stomach muscles you can actually use without sending sharp jolts of pain across your abdomen.
But seeing as I have six and a half weeks to go, perhaps I should stop complaining, stick something festive in my piehole, put my feet up when I can, and try to enjoy the last few weeks of peace.