Confessions of a Pregnant Woman
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To all the women who have gotten all doe-eyed in front of me, while rambling on and on how “WONDERFUL!” it is to be pregnant, like “seriously, the most beautiful time, enjoy, enjoy enjoy it!”: I’d like to invite you over my house tomorrow at 7:00 a.m.
I plan on going out tonight and purchasing a rifle. And you lovely ladies can help me with my target practice.
Pregnancy sucks.
Those women who think it’s “so lovely” are LIARS! I’m convinced that they were just so incredibly miserable, that they want to sucker others into their misery bubble. Either that, or they are attention whores who took advantage of their pregnancy.
I’m sorry, but please tell me how the Little squishing my innards, not being able to sleep at night, expanding like a balloon, having to take fiber pills to poop, waking up every morning with bloody snot and living in fear that my boobs will NEVER be the same is beautiful?
Let me put it to you all gently. For the past few nights I have been listening to music just to make it through the night and *hopefully* log 5 hours of sleep (when I’m not waking up to pee, of course). My musical selection? 98 Degrees Holiday Album. I. Kid. You. Not.
Don’t worry — I use headphones. (I’m not that cruel to the Mister)
Why 98 Degrees you ask? Well all of my favorite bands aren’t exactly soothing. Sure, they pump out a few ballads here and there, but after multiple occurrences of getting jarred awake by an electric guitar, drums or bass, I knew I had to change it up. And the 98 degrees Xmas album was the only solution I could think of.
If the Little’s first words are “jingle bells,” you’ll all know why.
I have GOT to download some Enya.
In the meantime, as you all are sleeping soundly and waking up bright and early to get in your morning jogs and yoga sessions (did I mention I can’t even bend over anymore?), just be grateful you’re not hobbling around the block hoping that you make it home in time to 1.) pee and 2.) blow the curdling blood out of your nose.
In just a few weeks, I’ll be starting the third trimester — that’s supposedly when things get “tricky.” Because, you know, they’ve been such a piece of cake.
Dear God, help me.
Send help…or cupcakes. Or 98 Degrees.
Dear Little: Mommy loves you
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