Lasts

This is my last pregnancy. I’ve known that for most of the pregnancy. My father-in-law is aghast at this, because “You’re so young!” but, for us, it makes sense.

My pregnancies aren’t ideal. With G, it was a perfectly vanilla pregnancy until 34.5 weeks, when I started having contractions, dilated, and effaced. This continued until I was induced at 39 weeks, not because of the prolonged labor I was having, but because I developed the worst case of PUPPS that my OB had ever seen. (She told me she’s seen a worse case since then, Lord, bless the poor woman who was inflicted with hell on earth.) For those who don’t know, PUPPS is a plaque like rash that usually starts in the stretch marks and spreads…everywhere, basically. I was on a steroid cream, had a pill, used every kind of lotion imaginable, and still had to sleep with oven mitts on to stop me from itching.

This pregnancy wasn’t quite as vanilla. One, emotionally, it’s been a journey: grad school, toddler parenthood, fighting with my husband and myself. There’s been a lot of tears, screaming, and anger. Two, physically, the pain started early. Lightning crotch is real my friends, and it starts early in second pregnancy.

And…my body doesn’t really do pregnancy well. Not the emotional side, but I reach about 34 weeks and my body is done. This isn’t to be confused with me saying I’m so over it, but like literally. I hit 34 weeks and my body is like, let’s go! Contractions, dilating, effacing, leaking everywhere.

I’ve had highs and lows this pregnancy. I casually said–on a good day–that we could have a third, hoping for a girl, and my husband looked at my in horror, and replied. “We are done.” 

To be honest, this pregnancy was hard on us all.

However, as it’s wrapping up (possibly sooner than it should be.) I find myself feeling a little sad.

I’ve been able to feel R moving since week 14, which means literally the past 21 weeks, I’ve had a constant companion. Never again will I feel movement inside me; my child growing, kicking, rolling, and hiccuping.

Never again will I get to see my stomach expanding with life.

Never again will I miss a period and be thrilled that it means we, as a family, are growing.

On the other side of it: I’ll never experience morning sickness, pregnancy-induced constipation, feeling like a baby is about to fall out of my crotch because–again–lightning crotch.

I’m torn. Some days, even on the days where I’m exhausted and hurting like hell, I’m saddened because this is my last baby.

Part of me feels like a failure, because as a woman, this is supposed to come naturally to me. I’m supposed to bask in the growing, the highs and lows. I’m supposed to talk about how great it is to be pregnant, and how much I enjoy the process.

And I do love seeing and feeling him move. I enjoyed watching him grow until people started asking me if I was going to “pop” soon, or commenting on how I “look like I’ll burst” or asking if it’s twins.

Side note: What is it about pregnancy that makes people feel like they can say whatever they want to about the size of the mother, or her emotions, or whatever. Maybe I’m a pissy bitch because people keep telling me I’m huge?!

To be honest, I’m hoping to make it until 37 weeks, then have him. I’m not looking forward to the delivery process, because having G was fucking hard: I pushed for four hours, got cut, and still tore. And anyone who tells you labor and delivery are a beautiful process is trying to sell you something, or on crack.

I’m ready for him to be here.

But…some perverse part of me knows I’m going to miss this stage of my life too.

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