My Boobs Are Leaking. I've Just Reached A New Level Of Sexiness

Today, I hit 30 weeks. Meaning that the meatloaves will be here most likely within the next 2 months.

And no joke, guys...I honestly think that it just sunk in that Brian and I are going to be parents. He, the man who created gastronomic hand grenades while brewing his home-made root beer and me, the woman who drops the F bomb more times in a day than Samuel L. Jackson.

WE...are going to be responsible for raising twins.

(Did it get cold in here or is it just me?)

(Okay, I'm lying. I'm never cold. I've been in pit-stain, swamp-ass hell since June)

30 weeks also settles me firmly in the third trimester.
Because in an age where we can use satellite transmissions to communicate across the globe in like 3 nanoseconds, we're still debating the point at which you're officially two thirds of the way through your pregnancy. This may no be a point of contention to you, but to us pregnant women? defining the trimesters has the importance of discovering penicillin.

We preggos are a strange, sweaty, impatient people.

But the trimesters of pregnancy undoubtedly require defining. Because each trimester is associated with its own obstacles and challenges. For example, in the first trimester, you spend the majority of your day insisting to friends , coworkers, and strangers that you're not hung-over. Because why else would you drag yourself in to work, hair askew, shirt untucked, green to the gills, racing to the bathroom every hour to deposit your breakfast burrito (and everything else you ate since you were 5) in the porcelain bank? The first trimester looks more like a late night out with Southern Comfort than the budding stages of procreation.

And then there's the second trimester, where you spend the majority of your day insisting to friends, coworkers, and strangers that you're not fat. Granted, some women appear pregnant by the 13th week. But for many (myself included), the second-trimester baby bump looks like nothing more than a beer gut. People who should be opening doors for you and surrendering their seats are simply staring at your stomach and judging you for your apparent overindulgence in all things yeast-fermented.

And then the third trimester hits. You're obviously not hung-over, and you're obviously not just fat. You're more like a cuddly, waddling circus freak. Everywhere you go, people stare at you. And inside, you're counting down the weekends you have left until the baby (or babies) come, and spending the majority of the day insisting to yourself that you're ready for parenthood, all the while you're scared shitless because you just realized for the first time that you're about to be responsible for one or more human lives, and they didn't even make you pass a test or anything.

Meanwhile, (and there's no way to say this delicately)....you're fat. You're a whale. You're a walking Mac truck. Your balance fails you and joints stop working, so you constantly trip and smash into things and drop things on the floor. You're emotionally unstable, so your reactions to being so huge and klutzy are far from mature. (for example, when I dropped my toast on the ground last night. First I cried because it was on the floor and just so far away. Then I cried because the dog wandered over and ate it. Then I cried because I was crying over a piece of toast. It wasn't pretty.) Your body is rebelling and doing weird, alien things, like farting without warning, and causing your boobs to leak. You get Sideshow Bob feet and are forced to relinquish your wedding rings because your swelling digits are no longer the slim size 7 band that they were when your husband actually wanted to marry you and, like, spend time with you. And because of all of this, you've never felt less sexy or desirable...or even human.
Which causes you to cry.
Again.

But despite all of this, I'm glad to be pregnant. Not only because it took so much damn time and effort to get here, but also because the next time I won't be pregnant, I'll also be a sleep-deprived, vomit covered mess. I may be a sloshing sack of retained fluid now, but at least I'm a well-rested sack of retained fluid. As someone who never did well on too little sleep, I'd gladly take all the symptoms of pregnancy and then some before I'd accept less than 7 hours of sleep per night.
And by 7 hours, I actually mean 10 hours.
I take the resting part of pregnancy very, very seriously.

So I have a maximum of 10 weeks where I'm free to burp, leak, and cry to my heart's content.
After that point, it'll be the boys' turn to burp leak and cry to their heart's content.

I guess that's kind of fitting, isn't it?

At any rate, the countdown is on.
In about 2 months, I'll be a mom.
God help those kids.
God help us all.