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39 Weeks Pregnant: The Waiting Game

charlieWait. What?

You expect me to formulate coherent thoughts?

You’re asking way too much.

I’m 39 weeks pregnant.

I am spindly arms and legs and an empty head attached to a giant, pulsing stomach. I am a husk.

The nursery is done. But most importantly, I AM DONE.

DONE.

DONE-ZO.

I can’t remember what it’s like to not be pregnant. Not have hips achier than your 90-year-old granny’s, not pee myself a little bit every time I cough. Oh, did I mention I have a major head cold? And Henry had pink eye. And Violet had an earache. And the Polar Vortex will never, ever leave. Yeah. Suuuper.

I ramble around my house aimlessly, constantly assessing whether the millionth Braxton Hicks I’m experiencing is the real deal. It’s never the real deal. Perhaps it’s premature. I mean, I could go for three more weeks.

I can’t go for three more weeks.

People will suffer. I will make them suffer.

Because listen. I can’t do this much longer. If I’m still pregnant in eight days I will technically have a day-old child in my belly.

H E L P  M E.

Image: MonicaBielanko

 

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