You'd be surprised how many times I've thought about writing a blog or actually sat down to write a blog, only to be deterred by one of a million distractions (both physical and mental). I honestly thought that without my horse and without my ability to exercise comfortably and without my ability to pretty much do anything I enjoy doing, I'd be blogging my socks off. But it hasn't been the case, and I'll tell you why:
There is nothing funny about raising twin toddlers while thirty-something weeks pregnant.
Trust me.
There is NOTHING funny about chasing around two miniature crackheads while waddling around with something akin to an extra-large bag of dog food strapped to your midsection.
There is NOTHING funny about having your giant, freakish belly treated like a beanbag chair/punching bag/table top by two sets of hands, elbows, knees, and teeth (no, I'm not kidding - they're biters).
And there is certainly NOTHING funny about trying to reel in your emotions as your children's antics stretch each and every one of them (good AND bad) to the breaking point...all before you've had your morning cup of decaf.
Talk about depressing...
I vaguely remember being pregnant with the boys, and wondering at how any woman managed to maintain a full-time job and/or watch their other children while being pregnant. I also vaguely remember wondering this while I was taking a break from my cushy freelance writing work to sit out on the deck, put my feet up, and sip iced tea. And if there was EVER a point where I wanted to invent a time machine, go back in time, and punch myself in the face, NOW IS THAT TIME.
Because I'm LIVING the nightmare that I once saw other women trapped in, and let me tell ya, it smells like panic and pepto bismol.
I wake up uncomfortable, with an aching back, sausage fingers, and heartburn, and it's all down-hill from there. I get stepped on, kicked, elbowed, beaten, screamed at, poked, wacked...you name it ...all the while trying desperately to protect my protruding belly with the grace of of a constipated hippo. Oh, you dropped a toy? You want me to pick it up? Awesome. I love the feeling of all the oxygen being squished out of my body like an accordian when I bend over. Oh, you want to step on my feet to get 2 inches closer to the counter top? Why not? It's not like my feet aren't already swollen, disfigured lumps of flesh anyway. Let's add some indian burn to the mix.
I'm exhausted. Like, nonstop. It's the exhaustion that I used to experience after backpacking in the mountains all day, except at the end of the day I feel defeated rather than accomplished, and instead of achieving inner peace from communing with nature, I've tapped into every nut-house emotion that my hormones can serve up. Because why WOULDN'T you break down in tears when your son throws a handful of raisins on the floor. Seems totally legit, right? RIGHT?!?!
I'm also angry. And a little suicidal. Because I can't drink coffee. And I can't drink wine. And I can't eat soft cheeses. And a world devoid of caffeine, alcohol, and brie is not a world that I care to live in, but I HAVE to, otherwise the kid will be born with three eyes or something, and it'll be all my fault.
My advanced state of desperation is really a shame, because the boys are just amazing. Every day they're doing something I've never seen them do before. They're full of life and learning to manage things like utensils and emotions and all in all just simply wonderful. And I'm missing it, mostly because I'm at my wits end and I truly believe that I will keel over and DIE if I have to pick them up just one more time.
I know in the back of my head that they are growing up so, SO QUICKLY and my time to hold them and just breathe them in is short-lived and coming to a close (they're already wriggling out of many of my hugs). I know that I need to cherish these moments and not let a little back pain and fatigue get in the way of this wonderful time in their lives.
I know this. I really do.
But for realz, pregnancy is not a comfortable process, and it's hard to put the aches and pains in perspective. I only wish the boys understood and could maybe go a little easy on me when they want to use me as playground equipment.
Fortunately, the pregnancy is wrapping up. The baby is still in the less-than-fifth-percentile (surprise, surprise), so we're looking at delivery around 37 weeks, unless he or she suddenly pulls an A-Rod and bulks up. At 33 weeks now, that gives us precious little time to finish preparing our lives for this new stranger to enter.
It's exciting. And scary. And WEIRD, you guys, to know that I'm about to meet another person who will become one of the most important people in my life forever and always.
So I'm counting the days and hugging the boys (when I don't feel like strangling them) and reminding myself that this is the LAST TIME I will ever experience a living thing growing inside me (unless I get a tapeworm), so maybe I should just chill the F out and try to enjoy my last weeks of pregnancy - and life as I know it - before it's gone forever.
It's a bittersweet process.
So I have a lot to reflect on and a heck of a lot to look forward to.
Like a baby.
And goat cheese.
And a glass of pinot noir.
And fall, which is my favorite season of all time ever.
It's all about keeping my eye on the prize(s) and working through the discomforts.
But mostly? It's remembering how good things are, even when they seem like crap.
In other words: Perspective.
It's all about perspective.
