Pregnancy pretty much kicked my ass this week. I have several Tumblr messages, about 20 emails and numerous texts from people that I haven’t responded to yet. If you’re one of these people, forgive me. That’s how tired I was, I couldn’t even answer emails. I mean, come on.
Overall, I feel pretty good in a physical sense. I got this super duper amazing pregnancy support belt that my midwife recommended to me, which has made an unbelievable difference in my ability to walk and move and stand without discomfort, waddling or general aches and pains. Matt calls it my chastity belt (which is what it resembles), but I just call it awesome. Emotionally, I feel fantastic. I am so filled with love these days for my boys and friends and family in general that I kind of constantly feel like I’m on the verge of happy tears.
It was a little bit of a shock to me on Thursday when my midwife observed that I’d hit 32 weeks this weekend. For some reason, I’d been thinking that I was only 30 weeks. I’m not one of those women who counts days obsessively in pregnancy or believes in purported due dates (more into the idea of a “two week period in which you will most likely have a baby”), so it’s easy for me to lose track. Still, it was a bit of a shock to hear the number 32. Thirty-two, as in, I could have a baby in 6 weeks, maybe.
The midwife visit was a good reminder to me to start buckling down in my birth preparations. I’m trying to make some time to work on my hypnobabies stuff each day because I feel like it really helped me during Milo’s birth. I’m also stepping up my consumption of my raspberry leaf tea, which I mix with nettles and alfalfa and then steep for 2 hours. I went to the herb store yesterday and bought all my tinctures and potions to encourage labor once I reach full term, as well as the dried herbs and a few muslin bags to make my post-partum sitz bath and nursing tea mixes. Jesus, you guys, when did I become such a hippy?
I’ve finally felt a few nesting urges. Nothing that’s translated into practical housework, mind you, but you know, I want to wash all of the new guy’s little clothes and make sure my diaper stash is set and, like, fix up a little corner in the boys’ room for him, even though he’ll be sleeping in our room for a few months. I really, really want to be one of those pregnant ladies who is all, “I want to clean all of the things!” and tackles practical projects every day and reorganizes their closets and makes freezer meals and…you get the idea. Are you like that? I want to be like you. But I am not. I just get lazier and lazier. Secretly, I just want my mom to come visit and organize my apartment. My mother did not raise me to be a lazy person, but somehow I thwarted all of her best efforts and grew up to be The Worst At Giving A Shit About Housework.
I’m pretty good at talking about Great War-era English poetry and literary criticism though. Oh, and the British labor movement’s involvement in the Spanish Civil War. And obscure early to mid 80s American hardcore punk. And, to quote Ben Lee/Noise Addict, “I’ve got a 7” collection that’s like nothing you’ve ever seen.” So there’s that. Annnnnyway, if I ever get around to brushing my hair today, maybe I’ll try to take a picture or two of my GIANT belly.
(And if you’re still reading this, and you sent me a list of name suggestions, THANK YOU! I’ve been meaning to respond to your suggestions, but let me say that there were some really good ideas in everyone’s list!)