First off, I hope everyone for whom Pride was yesterday is feeling very happy and proud, embracing the queerness in themselves and others. It was a glorious, sunny (!!!) day in Seattle, with much happiness, cheering, and very little clothing.
Even doped-up on cotton candy, Westley was not fully convinced of the parade's coolness. He enjoyed my pointing out cute dogs to him, many of whom were dressed in colorful bandanas or tutus. The Leather Daddies cracking their whips got him to sit up and take notice. But his favorite thing by far was the truckload of Furries.
I wanted to celebrate loudly and proudly, with hugs and high-fives and lots of pictures, but my energy deserted me. It took only a couple busses blasting "YMCA" before I started to feel tired, sore, and ridiculously pregnant.
How weird that just a week or two ago, I was marveling at how well I was feeling, saying things like, "This is great. The belly size is good, I'm still pretty comfortable, things are great." This week everything started to feel...not good.
Trying SO HARD to smile, you guys.
My feet are already tired when I get up in the morning. They aren't any bigger, and I've managed to avoid growing cankles—I think. I still weigh myself every morning (27 pounds gained), but seeing the number on the scale is not easy. Logistically-not-easy. I can't actually see my lower half past the hugeness of the belly.
Speaking of my lower half, hemorrhoids are now out of control. They're not painful (yet), but all the king's coconut oil and all the king's witch hazel cannot get them to calm down. Also, any and all interest in sex I might have had before this week has vanished. Nothing turns me on. None of the old, reliable tricks appeals any more. Even hugging feels uncomfortable.
My upper half isn't faring much better than the lower. Left to their own devices, my breasts are wide-set and like to go their separate ways. As they continue to grow (because who doesn't want a bra size with a gazillion Ds in it?) they have decided to break off their relationship for good. After expanding outward toward my right and left sides respectively, my breasts are now so far apart I'm going to call them Tit Romney and Boobrack Obama.
My physical complaints have nothing on my mood, though, which took a nose-dive this week. Even when I'm not having nightmares, I wake up plagued by a sense of nonspecific dread. Ridiculous things upset me—dust on the baseboards, having to wash my hair, the idea of grocery-shopping—and I spend most mornings feeling like I could burst into tears at any minute. I need to check myself before I speak, because my voice often comes out sounding hostile or annoyed.
Earlier in pregnancy, I resisted using hormones as the go-to excuse for every twinge and change, but now? I'm blaming it ALL on the hormones, because I can! It's not that I'm being a jerk, it's my hormones!
This isn't much consolation for Westley, who's had to contend with a tired, cranky, tearful mother more often than he deserves. I really have to keep myself in check around him, with a constant stream of mental reminders that He's not doing it on purpose to annoy you, he's only four, this is temporary, gonna be OK, da-doo-doo-doo, just dance...
Before preschool finished, I had visions of walking with Westley to the park every day until the baby was born, playing in the yard, and finding a few non-dandelion things to grow in front of the house. But the weather has been giving us lots of gloom and rain, keeping Westley, me, and my lousy hormones cooped up in the house. It really doesn't feel like summer.
As I was getting Westley ready for a bath one day—partly because having a bath is a fun indoor thing to do, and partly because I no longer fit in the tub and like to bathe vicariously through my son—I pointed out the liquid barrage on the skylight above our heads.
"Can you believe it's summer and it's raining this hard?"
Westley's face lit up. "Is it summer now? Is the baby going to be born today?"
For months, I relied on "summer" as a way of talking about way-off-in-the-future time that didn't involve an overwhelming explanation of how calendars work. Now that summer's here (whether or not it feels like it), I'm going to have to come up with something else.
"Pretty soon," I told him. "She's got about another six weeks or so. Which is kind of a long time and kind of not."