Chronicles of Alien Development (Week 29) — Nesting
First off, this is not my kid’s crib, so no one freak out at the presence of a stuffed animal, bunchy sheet, or…gasp…a pillow! The pattern of the sheet, however, is spot on and that brings me to why I even noticed such a thing.
Nesting.
Can we talk about that word? I absolutely loathe it. What the hell does that even mean? I am not a bird. My kid, unfortunately, will not come out of an egg. And despite my dog’s desperate attempts to bring sticks inside, we are not building a crib out of them.
Since when does simply wanting to get all your shit together before introducing another life form in to your household come with an annoyingly cutesy label? At no other point did anyone call my attempts at planning, buying, building, decorating, and organizing anything other than what it is…adulting. Why is this any different?
Cuz there’s a baby involved. I’ve learned that EV-ERY-THING having to do with a baby once it’s obvious you’re having one is instantly elevated to the land of “Awwww’s” and “How sweet’s.” These expressions make my jaw hurt under normal circumstances, but when plagued with 22 extra pounds, constant heart burn, low back pain, and the looming nemesis that is labor, they make me more apt to punch something. Or someone. Namely the person making said noise. Hard.
I don’t feel cute. Or sweet. Or even tolerant, really. Namely I feel big. And impatient. And grumpy.
I took my baby out for St. Patrick’s Day. We went to a brewery with live music and some weird ass fire dancers and a chic doing aerial yoga. Yeah, I wasn’t nearly drunk or high enough to appreciate all the many forms of…errr…entertainment this evening had to offer. But my baby and I danced. My husband got in on the act, bumping bellies and introducing all sorts of new dance moves involving the bump as a prop. I’m pretty sure child protective services would have proactively arrested us if they frequented breweries on St. Patty’s Day. Lucky for us, I can guarantee none of those in attendance have ever even heard of child protective services.
I had fun. Like, the kind of fun I’m used to having. Sober, of course, and with a shirt that said “I make Irish people” instead of something about kissing me or drinking me or lucky me, but you get the picture. I felt like my non-pregnant self…ish…right up until the 3rd time I had to stand in the bathroom line. At that point I realized that sobriety and drunk girls in a bathroom line do not mix, nor does dancing on concrete while 29 weeks pregnant, or a snack bar stocked with only popcorn and beef jerky (I’m SO not kidding!). I pulled the pregnant card and convinced everybody to continue the party at the pizza joint, where I could feed my baby belly and sit down all at the same time.
In that moment I didn’t feel cute. Or sweet. Just pregnant. And grateful for late night pizza joints. And chairs.
That’s pregnancy, folks. It may be some magical mystery ride through the land of milk and honey for some, but for me it’s been more like a merry-go-round. SUPER exciting at the beginning, particularly on the first trip around, but by the 10th, a little nausea-inducing with a monotonous view. I always remember being sad when the merry-go-round stopped, and I expect I’ll be nostalgic when this ride is over as well. For now, though, I’m 8 rounds deep on a unicorn with an uncomfortable seat and I’m starting to regret the cotton candy I ate in line.
Pregnancy at this point is climbing the wave of reality to the pinnacle of delivery, the realest of reals. The cute and sweet is not how one feels or even a description of what one does. It is, instead, the promise of what’s on the other side that motivates you to gut it out for the last 11 weeks. Our kiddo will most certainly be cute AND sweet, so might I suggest reserving all the “Awwww’s” and “How sweet’s” for him or her. Right now I’d prefer assurances that we will get everything done in time, Tums will not be my after-dinner mint forever, and alcohol is on the horizon.
I’m not miserable. I’m just pregnant. I’m not mad or sad or angry or hormonal. I’m just pregnant. I’m not having a bad time. I’m just pregnant.
Oh, and I’m not nesting. I’m just not a procrastinator. Aaaaaand I’m pregnant.
