I am so ready for these babies to come.
I’m huge. I can’t see my feet. When I sit my belly rests on my legs and my boobs rest on my belly. And heaven forbid I drop anything in either of those crevices because I will never find it. Rolling over in bed leaves me winded. And uncomfortable, because it usually means the babies need to slowly slide back into comfortable positions.
I miss wearing my wedding rings and mother ring. I don’t remember what my belly used to look like when I looked down. I’m nesting, but I can hardly move, and I’m constantly hungry, but I can’t prepare food for myself. I can’t dance or hot tub or scratch my own back. I’m lucky to get an eight hour work day in, and when I do I feel like I’ve run a marathon.
I can’t breathe. I constantly have heartburn. Sitting makes my back sore and standing makes my feet sore. If I don’t get at least eight hours of sleep I turn into a monster, which is inconvenient since I don’t fall asleep until after midnight and wake up at least twice in the night and sometimes can’t sleep in past 4:30 am.
And I have to do this for another six weeks, if I’m lucky enough to get these babies to “term.”
And I don’t know how I’m going to do it. But that’s not the hardest part. I can get over how uncomfortable it all is knowing that they’ll be safer and healthier staying in there a little while longer. But that’s the thing.
I don’t know that.
I know that’s how it should work. And I have to trust that it probably does. And that if the babies are meant to come out that we’ll find out in time–between my doctors and me and K and God himself. But that’s the hardest thing.
Because sometimes my digestive system cramps up and I have to talk myself down from believing I’m going into preterm labor, or worse. Sometimes the babies sleep for an hour when I think they should have been awake, and I poke and prod them until they start moving again. Sometimes the babies hiccup one too many times for my liking, or don’t kick in a specific way that I’ve come to expect, or push down so low and so hard that I’m afraid they’re going to hurt themselves trying to make a break for it. And sometimes my body just does some crazy pregnancy crap and I have no idea what is going on. And in all those moments I start to wonder whether they wouldn’t be better off out than in. Wouldn’t I be able to take better care of them if I could see them? Hear their breathing? Feel their hearts beating? If the doctors could tell me how they’re doing at any moment rather than just when I tell them, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this?”
And that’s when I really want these babies out. I’d love to have my pre-pregnancy body back. I’d love to be able to sleep on my belly and feel food sink deep into my stomach. I’d love to feel like myself again, even if in the littlest ways, like wearing the ring my sweet husband proposed to me with. But more than anything I want to hold my babies and know that they’re safe. And every day I get closer to that the more fearful I become of it being taken away.