We had our first appointment of the third trimester. It’s here when things start to pick up, of course. We go back in two weeks, and then another, and another until we get to 36 weeks.
And then I’m going to have to see the relatively not-friendly front-desk staff at my doctor’s office every week and LORD. I am not looking forward to that. The doctors at the practice, the nurses, the technicians, sweet Jesus, THE BILLING DEPARTMENT, are all tremendously lovely and wonderful people. For reasons that baffle me, the doctors’ front desk staff are a surly lot.
Anyway, we had another great appointment. Everything checks out well, I gained four pounds this month, our daughter’s got a strong heartbeat and I still can’t have a glass of wine. Yes, I know, your doctor said it was OK. That is wonderful for you. My doctors are not of that camp, and so in our house there is no glass of wine this Christmas.
My favorite part about this appointment was that, while not 100% sure, the doctor helped us figure out approximately were our girl is taking up space in the not-so-ample space that makes up my midsection. I had a dream the other night that I saw her little foot sort of poking up through my belly – not in a horror-show-type way, but that way that people tell you happens at the end – you can see a foot, a hand, etc. Turns out that where her feet are right now are in the same spot as they were in the dream, which makes sense because that’s where I’m feeling the most action.
But pretty much I’m feeling action everywhere. She’s sitting right on my bladder, which is great fun, believe you me. And since I’m so short and lacking in torso real estate, there isn’t a spot where I’m not feeling this kid moving around. The other night I had a glass of milk before bed and she bust out what I could have sworn was a rumba as though she were trying out for Dancing With The Stars in my uterus.
It’s strange, because almost like clockwork, I entered the third trimester this week and all of the tell-tale signs of the third semester came creeping in. Do you know what has me peeved like nothing else?
TURNING OVER IN BED.
Switching from sleeping on my right side to my left, and back, because you know I’m tossing and turning in what feels like a Sisyphean attempt at sleep, has become a chore. I look at the course of the half-marathon I ran earlier this year and I wonder what woman that could have been to have accomplished that because this woman needs a crowbar just to lug her ass out of bed.
I mean, A HALF MARATHON! And I finished! Without stopping! And now getting up from a chair winds me. There is no dignity in this experience for me. And I’ll tell you what – nothing has made me appreciate my athleticism and love of exercise more than this pregnancy. Nothing. I can’t wait to move again. I look at people running and my jealous knows no bounds. And trust me: it has nothing to do with weight. Nothing at all.
I just so miss the thrill of moving. I didn’t realize how much all of this had become a part of my identity until I was kept from being able to do it. And it’s not that I have resentment over not having the capacity to exercise like I used to – the most I can muster is walking and yoga – but it’s a huge part of my life that I miss. Once I get the clearance, I’m back out there, daughter in tow, I can tell you that much.
So yeah. I’m big and unwieldy and sore. I’m seeing a chiropractor next week, and I’ve started wearing a maternity belt – though my doctor this morning recommended this item, which is on its way. Scott spotted a stretch mark on my hip, I can barely finish a meal because I’ve run out of room and I’m pretty certain that bathroom visits are going to become a major challenge.
But we’re OK. We’re healthy, growing and blessed to be problem-free. Back in the summer, during the worst of the first trimester, I really wondered if I would make it. I really did. It was so awful. But I made it through and I’ll do the same thing here, too.
Oh what I wouldn’t give for that crowbar, though.
