I am 38 weeks pregnant and I am losing my sh*t. My cellulite laden arms and cottage cheese thighs are protruding SO WIDELY from my overly plump bosom and belly that I literally have to turn sideways to enter my apartment. And laying down? Forget about it. It takes me a full 3minutes just to roll onto my side, on the couch and inch myself up when the need to pee strikes suddenly, as it does, every fifteen minutes. (I am not even talking about my hips, which I am pretty sure will always be the size of an extra-wide shelf). From the beginning of my pregnancy I have made an effort to exercise and make healthy eating choices, and despite all these positive choices, I have still managed to end up–today–at 170lbs! A 45lb weight gain. 12 of those pounds amassed in the last 3 weeks. I could literally punch the editor of Fit Pregnancy magazine in the c*nt right now. Where is the f*cking fairness in this world? Meanwhile, every other pregnant woman eats donuts and cake and tells me, “can you believe I lost a pound since my last weigh-in?”
Pass me a mother-loving box of Pop-Tarts!
And what’s worse–this baby is showing no signs of budging. I had my first internal exam today, fully expecting to hear that I was on the brink of going into labor only to learn that I’m not even 1cm dilated. “Everything still feels firm” my doctor said as she removed her entire arm from my hoo-ha. Never in my life have I felt more like the rhinoceros from Ace Venture Pet Detective. Just like that it hit me: I will be pregnant forever. This baby and I will continue to grow at a rate of 4lbs a week until she inevitably sheds me like a snake sheds a skin, and emerges as a fully formed teenager.
That is when the palpitations began and the panic set in.
After 6 months of living in Zika exile, totally isolated from my husband, family and friends, it is safe to say I am cracking. All I want to do is have this baby and go the f*ck home. I have been walking up stairs, squatting down low to pick things up and bouncing on a freaking yoga ball for half an hour a day hoping that today–August 3rd–the day before my birthday, I would finally go into labor. And all for what? What bloody good did any of it do? I’m still 15lbs over the healthy weight-gain recommendation for pregnant women, which means I will never F*ing losing this baby weight. Well and good for someone who wasn’t swimming 100 laps a day and walking 2 hours every afternoon for her entire pregnancy–but not good enough for me. Not good enough for me, who literally killed myself NOT to gain more than 30lbs.
And don’t you even tell me to have sex to start labor! I am f*cking humpty dumpty over here. Do you honestly believe I haven’t tried having sex? I cannot even reach my hoo-ha. I cannot turn or bend or lay down comfortably. I cannot go 15minutes without almost urinating all over myself. And thanks to a miscommunication with a hairdresser, my hair has been chopped short and curly so I can’t even try to hide my bulbousness under hair that never really got that pregnant shine in the first place.
Still I tried, and after several attempts at sex, and much threat of death, I have abandoned the idea that I will ever successfully have sex again. Anyhow, sex is the reason I’m in this mother-loving situation in the first place–so keep your “just have sex” comments to your mother-loving-self.
Yes, I am very grateful that I can even be pregnant. I recognize that I am lucky and that my baby is healthy and that pregnancy is 40 weeks so I should just suck it up and gain another 10lbs in the next 2 weeks, but f*ck it. I am only human and right now I feel like a Mac truck with a two ton load who’s being told I need to learn to drive on water. I am drowning in this pregnancy, and I am at my bloody wits end!!!!
Tomorrow is my birthday. I told my husband that all I want is for him to get a vasectomy. I have never wanted anything more in my whole life.