The Third Trimester. The Final Frontier.

Dear @%^! Baby,

Well. Our darling little shithead. Yesterday, we entered the closing stage of your leeching. The third trimester. The final three months. The last 12-ish weeks. The culminating 84-ish days.

Don’t try to do the math. Pregnancy dating is dumber than a box of rocks and makes zero sense. If you ask Arizona, now women are pregnant for two weeks prior to conception. FEMALE BODIES ARE MAGICAL! Anyway, some say the 3rd tri starts at week 27, others says it’s 27 and a few days, others think it’s week 28. I chose to go along with the 28 weekers because, frankly, the longer I could stay in the 2nd trimester, the better I felt.


Let’s do a little round-up, eh?

Fruit Salad: The National Fruit and Fetus Comparison Board tells me you are roughly the size of a rutabaga. That is extremely unhelpful. I don’t really even know what that IS, much less how big it should be. I definitely don’t want to eat it.

Flavor Enhancers: Still can’t get enough fresh pineapple (so much so that I sent an angry tweet at Baja Fresh begging them to bring back their pineapple salsa. And then threatened to burn it down via my Facebook status), Mexican food or Jimmy Johns. I even reclaimed my Foursquare mayoral seat at  JJ’s which I am pretty damn proud of. I know that ham is supposed to be verboten, but dang nabbit, it’s all I want. ALL HAM ALL THE TIME.

Growing Pains: Holy man, the back pain after a weekend of house cleaning. I waddled for the first time after getting out  of bed with the stiffest back I’ve ever experienced. I waddled. I was not happy.

The Weight is On: I feel huge, but apparently my 11 pound gain has not been enough to appease my doctor. Lord knows I’ve been stuffing my $#^! face whenever the mood strikes. I was given instructions to “indulge more” once again. If she saw what I actually ate in the course of a day, she may change her tune. But, Doctor’s Orders! Pass the cupcakes. And milkshakes. And chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches.

(Sweet) Relief: The bathroom trips are getting annoying, especially when it’s four times during the night. WHEN THERE IS NOTHING IN THE BLADDER. Maybe if you would cease being a little shithead and stop kicking me in said bladder I wouldn’t have to roll out of bed to tinkle. And I mean literally. It’s just a %^#1&@! tinkle. NOT WORTH THE WADDLE.

I’ve also come to the point in the journey which requires doctor appointments every two weeks. I can tell you how they go. Check-in. Wait. Pee in cup. Get weighed. Check blood pressure. Wait. Doctor enters.

“Any pain?” Nope.

“Any problems?” Nope.

“Any questions?” Nope.

Get belly measured. Listen to heartbeat. Get information on what the next appointment will entail, if it is going to require a special test of some sort. Get the peace out, see ya later.

So mundane. Not that I want them to be anything different, but it kills my productivity if I have to go back to work afterwards. #justjokes #iamalwaysunproductive

I meant to take a picture yesterday to include here because apparently people are angry at the lack of bump, but I looked like hell and then just plain forgot. So suck it up for a few days, I’ll take some pictures this weekend. In the meantime, here’s how I played the system in the worst parking lot ever because my mom had just gotten off her flight and we were both starving. Even though I look visibly pregnant, I felt pretty %$@&~ shady walking away from the car in 4 inch heels. BUT I AM, IN FACT, PREGNANT SO NEENER NEENER. I didn’t see any further stipulations for space usage.

So, little rutabaga, hang tight a few more months. Or longer, it’s totally up to you. You are much safer in there than out here where I can drop you, scald you, bang your head against doorjambs, under nourish you, nick your fingers with fingernail clippers, forget to bathe you, over nourish you, yell at you, stare at you, poke you, scratch you, drop you again, break you, forget you in the car, leave you outside in the rain, forget to change your litterbox, etc. Stay here. Stay here as long as you can. 

The Greatest Thing Ever Invented

Hope you all had a wonderful holiday season, celebrating whatever and however you wished. Mine was filled with crazy family, as usual, but seeing it from the sober side for the first time in years was an eye-opening experience! In order to feel less left out, I started drinking my sparkling cider straight from the bottle. Because I’m classy like that.

In other news, I discovered a maternity accessory that I wish I had discovered pre-pregnancy. I could have been using this thing for YEARS. I introduce to all of you the wonder of the BELLY BAND.

For those not in the know, the belly band is just a basic tube of spandex that you wear over your pants so you can leave your pants unbuttoned and/or unzipped and no one will notice. It also acts like a control top to suck in that muffin top that baby is so graciously creating for you. Like Spanx you wear over instead of under. It’s designed to let you wear your pants a little longer before diving into the flattering world of elastic waistbands, mom jeans and maternity panels.

Let me tell you. I wore a pair of jeans that I haven’t been able to wear in about a year on Christmas Eve. That was great enough, but then after feasting for an hour, with the pants feeling a little tighter, a simple unzip of an inch made everything better. THIS NEEDS TO BE MARKETED AS A POST-THANKSGIVING DINNER ACCESSORY. Honestly, I would have bought one a long time ago. We all have those days where we’re a little bloated, or gained a few pounds over a holiday and we just need a little extra room in those pants to get us over the hump.

Now you know.

Pregnancy Means You Don’t Have to Give a Shit!

Dear Shithead.

Apparently because I get to carry your leecher ass around, that means I don’t have to care about my appearance, my health or my job responsibilities!! YAYYY!

I came upon an article about “Pregnancy Benefits” yesterday. I didn’t expect it to be amazing and real and usable, considering its source. But I read it anyway because I had work to do and I was avoiding it. Read it, made fun of it on Twitter and wound up thinking about it again this morning. It was so stupid it angered me. Read it yourself and then return for my commentary.

So. According to Nickelodeon Parenting or whatever, pregnancy gives me the excuse to be as trashy and rude as possible.

Letting my roots grow out.

Eating huge hamburgers.

Not wearing make-up.

Ditching out on work and shopping or napping.

Cutting in line.

Hogging the TV and being a DVR douchebag.

Wearing flip flops without shame.

Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’m not saying I am a perfect work ethic (far from) or that I don’t eat more fast food than I should. But shit, I did that crap when I wasn’t pregnant so I’m not using it as an excuse now. But the slacking on your personal appearance?? That’s just dumb. If you’re feeling fat and bloated and you’ve got a mini monster kicking you in the bladder, wouldn’t you WANT to look good? The one thing you have control over?Why is it a benefit to ignore your charming good looks? More people, including strangers, pay attention to you. Don’t think they aren’t passing judgement just because you’re a baby carrier. BLESS HER HEART she is so in tune with that baby bump she can’t get her hair done or put on real shoes.

F. THAT. And I wear flip flops a lot. In the snow.

Now, granted, I’m early into these shenanigans and three months from now I’ll be saying F@$K YEAH I DON’T HAVE TO PUT MASCARA ON OR DO MY HAIR. But at this point? Yeah, no. I’m the rebel that got her hair dyed at 11 weeks.

And the you-don’t-have-to-go-to-the-gym “benefit”? That’s just irresponsible. While I haven’t gone yet (but I went running once, three weeks ago) I know deep down that I SHOULD go. Telling women they have a built in excuse to avoid working out (unless there’s a smoothie bar hehe) is idiotic. We’re told to do some form of physical activity. But not going is way easier than going so hooray excuses!



My list of “benefits”:

I can eat what I want, when I want. IN SEMI-MODERATION.

At some point I’ll take advantage of mom-to-be parking. IN SEMI-MODERATION.

I am sure I will come to appreciate lycra. IN SEMI-MODERATION.

I will cut in line if I am peeing my pants. IN SEMI-MODERATION.

I may be oversensitive to the lolololololol I’m a woman tee hee schtick, though. Which is why I like to troll some pregnancy boards instead of participate.

The end.

At some point, I will draw myself being that described, lazy, dirty, scrubby woman – but I’m not drawing that picture at work. I have some dignity to maintain.