Next week I’ll be 37 weeks pregnant which means (according to Google and my lady doctor) that I’ll be full-term. Please, someone, send this kid an eviction notice. He’s taking up all of the space in my insides and I look like a candied apple, just a giant round thing on top of two sticks. I no longer walk, instead, I lumber around the house with great effort, panting. I can’t put on my own shoes without nearly face-planting on my hardwood floor and I can visibly see entire body parts of my in-utero child stretching across my abdomen. In all of my life, I never thought I’d get to experience the beauty of my baby’s entire ass poking through my sweater while I order a tea at a nearby cafe.
None of my clothes fit and I don’t feel like myself. In an effort to feel like a person and not a giant incubator, I’ve taken to buying expensive shoes that my swollen feet barely fit into and putting on a solid caking of makeup every day. I’ve taken “getting ready,” to a whole new level and at this point, I’ve gone full-on JonBenet Ramsey and am practically frosting my face every morning with a palette knife. It’s the only thing I have control over and you can see the desperation a mile away, rubbed into my eyes and slathered onto my cheeks.
Needless to say, I’m ready to not be pregnant anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved feeling my baby move and experiencing this very new strength and vulnerability that I’m surprised by every day. But enough is enough. I’ve done nine months of this and I’m out of juice. However, that doesn’t mean I’m prepared for labor. I’m excited to meet my baby, for sure, but not thrilled for my vagina to expand like a swollen and abused anaconda unhinging its jaw to swallow an antelope (but in reverse). It’s not going to be pretty. And it’s going to hurt.
I haven’t decided how I want this baby to leave my body, via an unmedicated birth or a heavily medicated one, but I guess I still have a few weeks to decide. Until then, I’ll just be over here, heaving my giant body around, in clown makeup.