The Pregnant Elephant, aka Me

Well, it finally happened. Within the last week I have gone from comfy pregnant lady to feeling like a pregnant elephant. I am sore, tired, and just plain worn out. I am looking into pregnancy support belts - the more straps and elastics, the better. My belly was measuring 41cm last week, so I'm not exaggerating when I say I'm huge.

I have never been one to complain through pregnancy -- aches and pains are just part of the process. But, man, do I feel like I've taken a whiny pill in the last three days.

I've started plotting my errands so that I have the least amount of walking to do. And definitely the least amount of carrying, stooping, and crouching to do. I actually got groceries this week and refused to get dog food because I just didn't want to pick up the bag of food. I knew that Scott would be running to town at some point this week and could pick some up if needed. And we've resorted to giving the dogs Cheerios when we're REALLY out of food, so I was pretty sure they wouldn't starve. Turns out, they had plenty of food anyway, whew!

I've been walking by the laundry and pretending it doesn't exist. I don't mind folding and putting it away, but the last time I tried to carry a basket up from the basement to our bedroom, I felt like I'd run a mile. While carrying a manatee.

Forget scrubbing the bathtub. Or the floor -- I've been wiping up muddy dog prints by skating around on towel shoes. If it can get done from a standing position and requires lifting fewer than 10 pounds, I'm your gal. If not... well... I'm not your gal...

I kinda hate feeling like a weenie. But I hate feeling like a worried mama even more. I had a spell of Braxton-Hicks contractions on Wednesday evening that actually had me concerned. As in, concerned enough to chug 30 ounces of water and lay down to monitor them concerned. Thankfully, even though it felt like I'd had 5 contractions in the hour previous to monitoring, there were only two in the first hour of me lying down and one in the hour after that.

I assume that I just completely overdid it on Wednesday. As in, I worked, then got groceries and unloaded them, then picked up the kids, then came home and cleaned up dog barf while trying to give snacks to two very demanding children who must have worn their hollow legs. When I went upstairs to change out of my work clothes into something more comfy, I was followed by a daughter who insisted on picking out my shirt and socks, which made a three-minute clothing change into a 15 minute dose of frustration. At the end of which, a bawling boy-child came upstairs because he'd been asking me for more cheese crackers the whole time I was upstairs. Could I hear him? No. Did that matter to him? No. Did he like it when I reminded him that he was already holding a bowl and that he knew where the crackers were, so he could have gotten himself more crackers? No. More tears, and not just his.

By the time Scott came home, I was at my wit's end. And, apparently, my uterus agreed with me. I swear that every time Milo started moaning, I contracted. So I really didn't mind it when I banished myself to my bed to do some monitoring.

OK... 8.5 weeks to go... I can do this! I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...