I hate pregnancy.
Whoa, whoa, whoa SETTLE DOWN.
When you finally own your beach house, do you rejoice in the flood insurance? Or when you get to that job with the big bonus do you exclaim, "I am so excited to pay even more in taxes!!"
No, you don't. You take the good with the bad and while the good is being pregnant the very, very bad is pregnancy. And while most 8+ months pregnant women get to this point and have the same list of trite complaints, please indulge mine.
Last time around, not realizing I would never again have time to eat more than string cheese, I stressed about weight gain and made it to the gym 4-5 times a week. This time, I hate all shoes with laces so much that I rarely work out more than twice a week. Those little blue bastards in my new running shoes look at me from the corner of my closet and raspily cry out like the big-eyed blobs growing from Ursula's lair, "Ohhhhhhh, can you not bend and force your foot in us? How will you tie us? How will you even get back up once you're down at our level?"
While we're on shoes, I also hate all my heels. They have forsaken me. Last time around I rocked them until Week 39. This time around, we're not on speaking terms. They make my ankles look like loaves of salami and I cannot have a relationship that makes any part of my body look like cured meat.
I hate renegade puzzle pieces, magnetic animals, and pumpkin and goat when they go missing because these items are invariably UNDER something. Last time around I had no reason to get down on all fours and crawl under couches at any point in life, let alone at 8 months pregnant. This time, I have a two-year-old whose cries of, "Get it Mommy! Get it! It's right dair!" are only slight more painful and persistent than the aches an 8-months pregnant woman feels rolling around the floor grasping for a goat in the dark.
I am very disappointed in how quickly my body gave up the good fight. This baby feels as low as my son did right before his head popped out of my crotch and my doctor told me I pulled some kind of ab muscle picking up that same son a few weeks ago. Ummm, abs...where are you? For the same bunch who used to run and run and run with me and go to early-ass morning bootcamp, you phoned it in pretty fast.
And lastly, I hate my hate. Pregnancy, you've made me one of "those" women and for that we will never be close. I don't want to groan everytime I move, get stuck on the floor, or look forward to a pre-natal massage for days. I don't want to sit on a couch and stare at a blank TV because I'm contemplating the tuck and roll maneuver required to get up. I don't want to stop caring how I look because the act of getting dressed tears muscles.
I've had it with pregnancy. Being pregnant, is fine. I'm happy to be and happy there will be a sibling in our lives very, VERY soon. However, if after reading a cheeseball facebook post shared by all my friends who (accidentally) have three children about how awesome/unique/loveable the third child is I say out loud, "I think we should have another!" I've asked my husband to punch me in the face or waterboard me until my senses return or I am beyond a child-bearing age.