I am 36 weeks, 3 days pregnant. I have 25 days to go until my fetus is complete. Presumably. However, I have passed that imaginary threshold that all pregnant women know...my line of contentment. I am no longer happy to be pregnant. I am no longer fearful of going into labor early. I am no longer scared that the baby will be worse off if she were born yesterday. I am no longer loving this.
Of course, I'd gladly do it a hundred times over for the blessings I know this baby will bring to my life. But if we could just fast forward the next three and three-quarters weeks, I'd be gladder still. This baby feels ready. She is moving appropriately, she should weigh about six and a half pounds at this point, and my body is shifting into discomfort. Keeping her in is becoming work; and I look forward to the work of labor to get her out.
Biologically, this period of discomfort must be required. Can you imagine how we would approach labor if we still felt as blissful as we did in our second trimesters? They would have to push us, screaming, into the delivery room. "NO! I can wait! She's not ready-I'm not ready! This is fine, fine, fine!!! I'm okay!" So I take comfort in the presumption that my irritability, irrational worry, waddling, swollen ankles, insomnia, and general crappiness are biologically permissible. I am not a whiner-I'm a fighter! We women have to be damn frustrated in order to be emotionally prepared for the hard work ahead.
This is it-I'm damn tired of being pregnant.
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