The medical community sets the duration of pregnancy at 40 weeks. 280 days. As of today, I’m 262 days into this endeavor. 262, 280, either way that’s a hell of a lotta days. I’ve been pregnant for so long I almost feel sick of talking about it. I’m definitely at the stage where I fear you’re probably sick of hearing about it. And yet, really, what else can I talk about? This pregnancy casts its protruding, orbital shadow over every thing I do. Increasingly more so now that I’m in the home stretch. The phone rings and I utter a silent curse before I heave myself off the couch. The doorbell buzzes and I’m downright APPALLED. Who in the hey-all would have the NERVE to ring my doorbell?! Do they know what I have to go through to get up and answer the damn thing? Suddenly I understand why it takes the elderly a full four rings to pick up the telephone, a solid seven minutes to come to the door. Don’t ever bother an elderly person unless you have something worth their while to share.
I guess some people find enjoyment in the final stages of the third trimester. With limited mobility, friends and oved ones start to wait on you, bringing you things and murmuring soothing stay puts, I got its. Unfortunately, I’m not enjoying this so much. I like being independent and able bodied. I like being able to jump up and say, ‘I got it, be right back!’ Now, all it takes is one look at my face and my husband knows that, no, I don’t got it. Everything is a chore. Loading dishes in the dishwasher ends with me heaving a heavy sigh. Pulling out the stepladder to grab a dish from a high cabinet results in family members casting blame on one another. “You’re going to let the pregnant lady reach for that?!” Even the cleaning lady has got her eye on me. I finally gave up on hefting laundry down to our apartment building’s basement in a basket and gave in to rolling it all to the elevator in one of the laundry room carts. “Good idea, Sarah” she says with a meaningful nod.
Mobility. It’s a beautiful thing. In a way, I think I’ve got a better understanding of the mindsets of people who suffer a major trauma that leaves them disabled. Morning news and talk shows parade these people out as heroes for tackling everyday tasks while missing limbs. I think it’s wonderful, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t know about heroic. I think it’s human nature, and a matter of keeping one’s sanity. No one wants to be at the mercy of outside help. We all want to feel like whatever it is we want or have to do, we can tackle it on our own. Asking or requiring help is a stumbling block that slows us down. Help should be a gift card we pull out when we feel like saving our cash for another day. These days, I’m cashing in a lot of gift cards. I miss the greenbacks.
Tags: I'm going to be a mom?!
