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.
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.
- It’s About Time! Birth Control Pill for Men on the Horizon
- A Dad’s 12 Greatest Delivery Room Moments
- Pregnancy and Beyond: The 4th Trimester Bodies Project (PHOTOS)