I’m just plain exhausted, y’all. I’m six months and some change along and I feel the same as I did with Violet at nine months. Just a big, lumbering elephant with absolutely no energy.
I’ve mentioned before that there is a rich history of Mormonism in my family. I’m talking about women who spent entire pregnancies crossing prairies and climbing mountains and miscarrying or birthing ten pound babies in the backs of wagons and sometimes dying and still, they kept on keeping on. Except for after they died, of course.
I got the pioneer blood pumping through my veins. So why is it so hard to make it from one side of the day to the other? Getting dressed for work is a marathon. Reminds me of how I felt that couple of months a few years back when I decided I’d run an actual marathon (yeah, right!) and began “training”.
Buck up, I tell myself. Pull yourself up by the bra straps and get it together! I mean, did the pioneers even have bras back then? How did they harness the nightmare that is a 40DD?
I really don’t enjoy being pregnant. There. I said it. I don’t like it at all. I love being a mom. Love having a baby. But getting there, waiting for the newborn bundle of joy is so hard!
Saturday we drove an hour south of Salt Lake City to the storage shed we’re currently renting. It’s so far away because it’s half the price of renting one in Salt Lake City. We needed the shed when we moved in with my mom earlier this year for a few months.
So we’re driving and I’m not feeling so great. And then it’s not that I’m just not doing so great but I know that puking is imminent. On the freeway. In a construction zone. I heave my giant, pregnant body into the back seat in a desperate search for the plastic grocery bags we stock the car with to pick up poop when we take the dogs to the park. I find one in the back cargo area and scramble to the front seat again, open the bag and prepare to unleash my lunch.
Serge knows this drill well. He turns up the jazz music he insists on playing and begins to be-pop along loudly. If you’ve ever heard someone be-pop and thrum their fingers on the steering wheel along with jazz, well that’s enough to induce vomit whether you’re expecting a child or not. So I prepare to puke when I notice holes in the bottom of the bag. I always look for holes, ever since this unfortunate incident.
Once again I lumber from the front to the back seat while Violet stares at me from her car seat. She watches, her mouth contorted into a tiny O, as I squeeze my large frame between the two front seats and dig into the nether regions of our SUV for another plastic shopping bag.
I find another bag, blessedly without holes, and do my best to skedaddle back to the front. Except you can’t really skedaddle when you’re 170 pounds. If you’re wondering why I insist on climbing back to the front to puke it’s because I know that my already bursting bladder will be no match for the heaving to come. I need the first bag, the one with holes, to sit on.
“Should I pull over?” Serge politely inquires. Not because he’s generally a polite fellow, he’s just learned from experience that now is not the time to be anything but polite. Anything he says will definitely be used against him later.
“No!” I shriek as the first heave erupts from my body. I barely have time to slip another plastic bag under my butt when the second heave comes forth in all its violent glory.
And so does the pee.
There I am, puking and peeing as Serge beats a jazzy rhythm into the steering wheel and Violet happily chirps nonsensical words from her car seat. This, I suppose, is what being pregnant is all about. At least for me it is.
By the time I’m finished, my stomach is empty, my bladder is empty and I’ve completely wet myself and the coat I had to shove under myself when the plastic bag proved to be ineffective.
Did we turn around? Nope. There is a storage to be emptied, things to be done. You only get one Saturday a week, you know? That’s just how it goes sometimes when you’re pregnant.