The last six months, trimesters two and three, were spent worrying. I worried that I was doing something wrong. My diet wasn’t healthy enough. I was too old. Every time I bent slightly to pick up something off the floor I worried I accidentally squished Baby disfiguring him forever. The more crazy the scenario, the more I worried. Continue reading
I’ve got two more weeks of being held captive by the little eight-pound warden residing in my swollen uterus. And now that I’m on bed rest, I’ve got nothing but time to reflect on the last nine months: the good, the bad, and the seriously deranged.
In recent months, I’ve learned to be grateful for the simple things in life such as the ability to bend at the waist. Will leaving whatever I just dropped on the floor hurt anyone? Do I really need to wear socks or shoes or, hell, pants for that matter? Bending over might kill me or squish Baby Boy or kill me! Holy crap that hurts. Continue reading
I almost rammed an old woman with my grocery cart yesterday. Instead, I told her, “Move before I puke!” I did not apologize for being rude. After all, I had said, “Excuse me,” twice, politely begging her and her gang of old biddies to clear my escape path around the seafood counter of my local Publix. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer and felt the gag welling up from my stomach. Old Mother Hubbard had to move her ass or suffer the consequences.
Yes, my rabbit is dead. I am three months along. And so far, pregnancy hasn’t been pretty. Continue reading