Monday, May 18, 2009
I am one week from my due date. It seemed so far away and suddenly we are in the single digit days and I am sort of frantically packing a bag for the hospital which involves tearing the house apart which in turn is making me feel frantic. Every few minutes I stop and pant and flop face down over the arm of the couch in the basement where it is nice and cool, wherefrom I almost feel like I am laying on my stomach, my belly nestling in the negative space of the right angle and my feet up in the air so the exhaustion can drain out of my legs long enough for me to run around for five or ten minutes more. Repeat.
My hands and feet are suddenly puffy and my belly occasionally becomes noticeably lopsided. The baby prefers to nestle herself on my right side, never to the left, and sometimes as far up under my ribs as she can get.
I am tired of being pregnant. I stopped running about a week and a half ago because I can't find the enthusiasm to get trussed up just to go plodding cautiously along: a heartrate monitor, two sports bras, trying to find a shirt that will fit over my increasingly outrageous belly and the indignity of lacing up and tying not one, but TWO SHOES!
So now I am tired, and bored. Owen is napping at my feet, never straying more than a few feet away. The kitchen clock is ticking, flies are buzzing against the window screens above the sink. This pregnancy has been going on for years now.
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