I am so ready to be full term. My hormones are driving everyone, including me, insane. I'm huge (in my biased opinion) and everything is getting difficult. The heartburn has gotten so bad that I woke up in the middle of the night with a mouth full of actual stomach acid. And my Braxton Hicks contractions have gone from a couple a week, to a couple an hour. As much as I hate water, I have to drink about 2 gallons a day to keep the contractions and leg cramps at bay. I'm completely ready to hold my baby and be thin.
Ahh! I had such a romantic notion of what this pregnancy would be. At 19, I had an attitude of complete disinterest about my pregnancy with the hellion. I did everything I was supposed to do and was excited, but I never took the time to really realize what was happening inside of me. With mine and the husbands first pregnancy together, everything was perfect. The husband was supportive and we were so excited about the babies, waiting as patiently as we could for the kicking and weight gain to begin. And then we had the miscarriage. With every subsequent pregnancy, we got a little less excited, the husband became a little less supportive and we were less and less surprised by our losses. The miracle that was my entering the second trimester with this pregnancy was greeted with relief, and not much more. The constant fear that surrounded the beginning of this pregnancy has now been equally divided between losing the baby and losing the husband. At this point, it's all irrational, but still, it's like I have all this pent up fear of lose that comes out every time something minor occurs. If the husband gets bored waiting for the baby to kick, he doesn't care about the pregnancy. If the baby doesn't kick enough, I think she's dead. If the husband goes out with friends, he's leaving me. If I have too many contractions, I must be going into early labor. If during all those contractions the husband shows a lot of concern about the baby, he must not love me and only wants to ensure that his child is fine. I'm going to lose my mind. I don't worry this much and I am so not this needy.
I'm not even in the third trimester. At least, I don't think I am. I think that's somewhere around this Sunday. 95 days to go. I'm so sick of people telling me how fast the last 185 days went and that these last three months will fly by. Hello? I have done this before. You're talking nonsense. Every day will stretch on longer and longer until I believe that I will never go into labor. And maybe those last 185 days flew by for the rest of them, but in my completely sober, large, no fun state, it has been very very very excruciatingly long.
Here's some recent pictures. I'm huge and I know I'm only going to be double this size come September.
I am so ready to be full term. My hormones are driving everyone, including me, insane. I'm huge (in my biased opinion) and everything is getting difficult. The heartburn has gotten so bad that I woke up in the middle of the night with a mouth full of actual stomach acid. And my Braxton Hicks contractions have gone from a couple a week, to a couple an hour. As much as I hate water, I have to drink about 2 gallons a day to keep the contractions and leg cramps at bay. I'm completely ready to hold my baby and be thin.
Ahh! I had such a romantic notion of what this pregnancy would be. At 19, I had an attitude of complete disinterest about my pregnancy with the hellion. I did everything I was supposed to do and was excited, but I never took the time to really realize what was happening inside of me. With mine and the husbands first pregnancy together, everything was perfect. The husband was supportive and we were so excited about the babies, waiting as patiently as we could for the kicking and weight gain to begin. And then we had the miscarriage. With every subsequent pregnancy, we got a little less excited, the husband became a little less supportive and we were less and less surprised by our losses. The miracle that was my entering the second trimester with this pregnancy was greeted with relief, and not much more. The constant fear that surrounded the beginning of this pregnancy has now been equally divided between losing the baby and losing the husband. At this point, it's all irrational, but still, it's like I have all this pent up fear of lose that comes out every time something minor occurs. If the husband gets bored waiting for the baby to kick, he doesn't care about the pregnancy. If the baby doesn't kick enough, I think she's dead. If the husband goes out with friends, he's leaving me. If I have too many contractions, I must be going into early labor. If during all those contractions the husband shows a lot of concern about the baby, he must not love me and only wants to ensure that his child is fine. I'm going to lose my mind. I don't worry this much and I am so not this needy.
I'm not even in the third trimester. At least, I don't think I am. I think that's somewhere around this Sunday. 95 days to go. I'm so sick of people telling me how fast the last 185 days went and that these last three months will fly by. Hello? I have done this before. You're talking nonsense. Every day will stretch on longer and longer until I believe that I will never go into labor. And maybe those last 185 days flew by for the rest of them, but in my completely sober, large, no fun state, it has been very very very excruciatingly long.
Here's some recent pictures. I'm huge and I know I'm only going to be double this size come September.