Last week, I was over it. This week, I'm slightly less over it—though I by no means want to stay pregnant forever! Things feel pretty good size-wise, as long as I'm not trying to squeeze into pants. (This cardigan/maternity tank/high-waist leggings-with-seams-showing look brought to you by Laundry Day.)
According to the scale, I'm not any bigger than I was last week. Though I feel the need to point out that, with ten weeks to go, everything about me is pregnant. My chin is pregnant. My hair is pregnant. My appetite is definitely, ridiculously, huge-bowls-of-muesli-in-the-middle-of-the-night pregnant. Parts are swollen that have no business being swollen. I have done regrettable things with ice packs. My ability to remember even the simplest words is gone, and nouns are the worst. All things are just "the thing" now. As in, "Can you hand me that thing? It's right there next to the thing."
Fortunately, even in my state of uber-pregnantude, I have lovely friends who say kind things about my appearance. I feel very shallow owning up to it, but there are magical confidence-boosting properties associated with hearing (or reading, as it were) some version of "you look great." It also doesn't hurt that this is Rob's favorite part of pregnancy. As soon as I get semi-huge, he starts grinning like a fool whenever he sees me and patting my belly whenever it's within reach. I still think it's weird that when I move in to kiss him, my midsection touches down first. He thinks it's adorable.
More than anything else, though, being active has bolstered my roller-coaster mood. Running on the elliptical, working in the yard, and walking to my chiropractic appointments are excellent reminders that while I may not look my best or be able to remember monosyllabic words, I'm healthy. I can still do things! I can!
There is still so much to do, though, and I have finally given up on the idea that it will all get done before the baby is born. In fact, most of it doesn't need to get done with any kind of urgency. I just think it does, because like my mind is also pregnant! The true baby essentials—something to wear, my breasts (each with its own gravitational pull and small system of moons), and something to pee and poop into—are taken care of. I keep reminding myself that the baby will actually be just fine, even if I don't find something to replace the blinds in the living room TONIGHT.
The truth is I'm not going to be as "ready" as I would like, period. Because there will never come a time when I think, "Yes, now everything is in place for major life upheaval! Bring it on!"
Instead, more often than not, I wonder, "What have I done?"
I'm very glad Westley will be four-and-a-half when his sister is born. (I'm not sure I could survive a two-year age-gap. I know people do, all the time, and I bow down to those people.) Even so, he seems to enter a new, more challenging developmental stage every few weeks. The unfortunate result is that the closer I get to having a second child, the more I second-guess motherhood as a sound option for myself. Westley can be wonderful—and when he's fun to be around, he's a LOT of fun to be around—but when things are difficult, they're so far beyond difficult that all I want to do is lock myself away somewhere dark and quiet for the next 27 years.
Then I remember that it's all going to be okay. Even if it's NOT okay, it will somehow be okay. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Namaste, and all that jazz.