I was on the verge of tears at 5:30 AM this morning. It seemed so unfair that it was morning already, when I swore I'd just closed my eyes. Rob was prepared to let me sleep in, but sound carries through our house like crazy. Rob is usually so quiet you'd never know he was here, but once Westley is up, the bedtime game is over. Those tiny feet on the hardwood sound like Bigfoot plodding around, and Westley's cough shakes the windows. (He's sick again or possibly still.)
Being tired all the time, even after what should be a full night's sleep, is its own special kind of tired. It's the "I will never feel like myself again, ever" tired. When I feel rested, I can handle anything. It's a dirty trick that these last few weeks of pregnancy are all about disrupted sleep. Evening workouts with cal-mag supplement and passionflower tincture chaser are a much better cure for insomnia than the late-night Food Network programming I watched while pregnant with Westley, but there's really no escaping the tiredness at this point. I'm worried about possibly having to face labor head-on in my current state of exhaustion.
The baby is up to something. I've been feeling more big, sweeping movements this week. Over the past few days, the downward pressure has gotten to the point that I can't make it go away by resting or changing positions. I have to watch myself, though. Every time I moan a little because the baby is pushing on something in a not-so-comfortable-for-me way, Rob looks VERY CONCERNED.
It's fine, I tell him. Just getting ready.
"Just as long as she waits 'til Thursday," he says nervously. (July 26 is the soonest the baby could be safely born at home. We'll both feel more relaxed when we're past that date.)
Tomorrow is (what I hope will be) my final ultrasound. We'll find out how the baby is growing, and what my cervix is doing. I'm especially interested in the baby-growth part, since I've managed to gain almost no weight this entire month. And I keep having this insane idea that the sonographer will suddenly tell me we're having a boy.
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We didn't just belly up to the bar, as it were. We saw the opening performance of Rent at the 5th Avenue Theatre. I don't know whether it was this particular production or the 16-year-old play itself, but the whole thing really felt like a period piece.
On Sunday, it was back to business. My dad came over with pumps and hoses and compressors and we tested out the birth pool. My dad did an incredible job cleaning and packing up the pool after Westley's birth. It looked absolutely pristine and brand new when we set it up!
It wasn't nearly warm enough outside to climb in and really test the pool out, but Westley still had a good time playing with the hoses. And part of our back yard is now a swamp.
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Oh, hey! Guess what? This dress is actually maternity! It's one of the few things that I saved from my first pregnancy. Not the most attractive thing I own, but at least it fits.
I'm so over clothes at this point, but can't quite bring myself to pose in the ensemble I typically wear around the house: a pair of seven-year-old knee-length knit workout pants (with bleach stains and holes in the butt, of course), and one of Rob's T-shirts. Even that's not really comfortable, per se.
My wardrobe options are disappearing, and my bellybutton is trying to turn itself inside out. It can't be much longer now.