So, here I am… 7 1/2 months pregnant, out of breath at every turn I take, and getting only 3-4 consecutive hours of sleep at a pop. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to make it through the next 7 weeks. My skin feels like it’s been stretched to the max, I’m not waddling yet, but I can see it in my not too distant future, and I’m exhausted and cranky all the time.
My sleep cycle has been off for months, but never has it been as bad as it has been lately. Last weekend was a mess of running around and not sleeping. Friday we drove to meet Peanut’s dad at our halfway point so she could spend the weekend in NJ with him. That consists of me getting a whopping 4.5 hours of sleep before I get up, pick her up from school, load up the car, and drive 6 hours, only to head straight to work and work my 10 hour shift. Saturday we had a friend’s birthday party to go to, and I desperately wanted to see my new nephew, so that was another 4 hours of sleep day. Sunday I was supposed to go to a baby shower, but I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed early for the life of me. So I slept until the last possible second and then drove the 6 hours again to get my little girl back.
Also, T has been working midnights, which gives me no incentive to go to bed at a reasonable hour. It’s been a joyous week of falling asleep on the couch, waking up around 2-3am, and then being up until right before it’s time to get Peanut up and off to school – which results in both of us being cranky and arguing. Then I try to fall back asleep after she gets on the bus – except yesterday I worked my extra shift and today I helped out in the school cafeteria. Last night and this morning I finally made myself useful. With a somewhat empty house and a child that would sleep through a tornado in her room, I got the dishes done and started on the laundry. I was up from about 3am until well after she got on the bus, so I also swept and vacuumed the whole house and straightened up a little. Then I napped for a little while before volunteering at school.
It felt good to be productive. But at the same time, it was exhausting. I’ve always been one to have a clean house. Even with pets, even with a child, people could stop by unannounced and my house was never really in a terrible condition. Lately, I just don’t care. Let the dishes pile up. Let the laundry pile up. Oh, look at that dust bunny of animal fur glide across the living room floor. I’m equally disgusted and indifferent of it all. I just want to sleep. I just want to sit in the corner of the couch (which I’m pretty sure at this point has my butt imprinted into it) and either watch Netflix or play some mindless game on my phone. I run downstairs to get meat out of the freezer or to let the dog out and by the time I come back up I am completely winded. I can barely tie my own shoes anymore, but haven’t had a pedicure since our wedding so I refuse to wear flip flops. I’m just over this whole pregnancy thing.
There is a strong internal conflict between the Candice I’ve been my entire life, and giant pregnant Candice. Giant pregnant Candice is winning, btw. I work 4 days per week right now, approximately 32 hours, and it’s all customer service. I clock in, I put on the smile, and I’m good to go until I clock out again. I’m warm and engaging, I try to be as quick as I can, and I can still carry a tray so full that it would make you cringe. I do my job and I do it pretty well because my income depends upon it. But once I clock out, there goes my motivation to be warm and bubbly, productive, etc. I just want to sit around and do nothing. Part of me just wants to play the pregnancy card for all it’s worth, the other part is too lazy to even make an excuse.
In the end, I’m almost there. The past 33 weeks have flown by and the next 7 will too – if I even make it until the end. I’m lucky that I have an incredibly understanding husband who has not harassed me on a daily basis about everything that’s not getting done around the house lately. He’s picked up some more of the cooking because he knows at a glance whether I’m just over it for the day or not. He rubs my calves and ankles when they get swollen and he makes just the right amount of jokes about my belly. My daughter has been understanding for the most part of my terrible mood swings and she’s still just as excited for the baby to get here as she was 6 months or so ago when we told her we were pregnant. Things could definitely be worse.
So, for now, I keep going back and forth between “get this baby out of me” and “please stay in until your due date, little one, so I can have my first summer off of work in 20 years.” It’s a strong internal debate, but ultimately one I have no control over. He/she will get here when they get here. Until then, I’ll try to have the house presentable in case someone stops by, but I’m not promising anything.