Nine months pregnant. Three weeks to go before the doctor takes the baby out.
I have to say, it’s a little weird having a viable human being that just, you know, lives in me. I live in Chicago, he lives in Katy. (And not the one in Texas.)
So, what’s it like to be nine months pregnant?
First, let me tell you about getting dressed. All of my maternity jeans are stretched out or too small. Which means that either the elastic doesn’t stay up—thus showing anyone who is looking (which, luckily, let’s face it, is probably limited to Kullervo) what color undies I chose this morning—or the buttons are too tight and I can’t keep them closed for long. Oh, and there are the maternity jeans that don’t have a button on top… they have a snap. Like the kind on kids’ clothes who aren’t capable of unbuttoning fast enough to make it to the bathroom. Which, of course, for me, means that I might be walking my kids to school and all of a sudden the snap on my jeans decides that it’s had enough… and just pops open.
Now, this is mostly a problem because it’s uncomfortable. My belly is of a size that a normal person who is not bending at awkward angles cannot possibly see the waistband of my pants. And if they are doing awkward robotic yoga poses to see the pattern of my stretch marks, I’m judging them. I’m not going to lie.
How about shirts, you ask? At this point, most of my shirts do not cover my entire baby bump. So there is a wind flap of round tummy poking out of the bottom of all of my shirts.
The benefit to all of this happening when I’m pregnant? If anyone comments on my exposed stomach, I can choose from the following responses:
“I haven’t seen that part of my body in a couple of months. How’s it looking?”
“Sold! You may now buy me a shirt that suits your sensibilities.”
“Yeah, I totally don’t care anymore.”
I’m not really a panicky person. I’m not the most laid back person I know, but I am usually happy to roll with the punches.
Not anymore. All day long I have a stream of things that I need to get done before the baby is born. Note that most of these things are of little to no consequence. Some of the things on this list include:
- Rearrange the furniture to be the way that I want it. (
- Note that Kullervo is happy to do this anytime, and is fully capable of doing it after the baby is born.
- Set up the crib in Hazel’s room
- Once again, Kullervo can do this in about 15 minutes… and it can wait until the baby is born. For at least three days, the baby and I will be hanging out in the hospital, and after that the baby will be sleeping in our room with us.
- Set up the bassinet
- This one is perhaps more important than the others, but mostly because I have no idea how to put the thing together and it looks scary in pieces.
- Clean the entire house, top to bottom.
- Can we just say HA! Climbing stairs exhausts me. And babies can only see, like, 12 inches or something. He totally won’t notice if he is greeted by dust bunnies.
- Buy all the food
- I actually did this today. I went to the grocery store and bought food to make four vegetable lasagnas to freeze. Of course, before I could do that, I had to make space in the freezer. And since I was inventorying the contents of the freezer, I figured I should go ahead and clean the shelves.
Mostly I realize that this is insanity manifesting itself in the form of to-do lists that I am never capable of remembering by the time I get to a pen and paper. So I write down that I should do the laundry.
Without getting too gross, it’s time for all of the lovely physical symptoms that the baby is near cooked. Besides the fact that the pop-up turkey timer (i.e. my belly button) has long since popped (the turkey ones are never accurate either, in my experience), that is.
In the last two days, I think the baby has dropped a bit. I think this because the horrific heartburn that has plagued me for months has subsided a bit (as in, I am chewing about 6-8 Tums a day instead of 12-14). Also, I have to pee pretty much all the time. I would really like to get a good night’s sleep before the bi-hourly feedings begin, but I wake up at least twice a night, sometimes as often as five times. And when I wake up, I’m usually too groggy to figure out why I’ve woken up, so I lie in bed wondering what’s going on and why I feel so darned uncomfortable…
Also, general movement has gotten a lot more difficult. This could partially be due to the fact that I keep forgetting that at nine months pregnant, nobody (except apparently me) expects me to be as physically active as I was when I was not pregnant. I climb the few stairs to get to my front door and am completely out of breath. I walk the kids to school and am pretty sure that this baby is trying to get out of me.
And there are contractions… I think. I don’t really know what contractions feel like, so I can’t be sure. Today I was crossing a fairly busy intersection with Hazel to pick Oliver up from school, and in the middle of the road I was overcome by some fairly intense pain. Poor Hazel—we were holding hands, and I squeezed hers a bit too tightly. She, oblivious, said, “Mommy, what game are we playing?” and squeezed my hand back.
Finally, and to me, the most hilarious, are the things that strangers say to me. None of it bothers me in the slightest, but I find endless amusement in the lack of verbal restraint I bring out in people. For some reason, I can’t even remember the doozies that I’ve heard in the last couple of weeks.
“Oh my gosh… you’re huge!”
“Oh, you’re tiny! Are you sure that baby’s ready to come out?”
“Are you sure you’re not having twins?”
“You look so done.” (I feel like this is the equivalent of telling someone they look tired or sick. It’s just sort of insulting.)
I haven’t been plagued with other people’s problem of strangers touching their bellies (I repel people, I guess). There was a five year old girl the other day who asked if she could touch my stomach. I told her no. Normally I wouldn’t mind at all, but this girl was annoying and kept insisting that Oliver was a girl because he has long hair. She insisted this even after I, almost a grown up, and definitely his mother, told her that he was definitely a boy. I felt smugly satisfied that I denied her access to my second son.
Yeah, that’s right. I was able to one up a five year old. And I was proud of it.
Luckily, with all of my other pregnancy symptoms, being overly emotional isn’t one that I’m suffering from right now.