Pregnancy is shit, yo.
There are a million things that I could complain about, but then I'd feel guilty because I know I'm lucky to have conceived--and successfully carried--this child for the past 31 weeks. I am very aware that not everyone has that luxury, and I have been in the terrible position of wondering if it would ever be possible to have another healthy child. I get it.
I complain about the aches and pains to the people around me, and most people just roll their eyes and assume I'm being over-dramatic about the things that every pregnant lady goes through. Not everyone has a constant 6/10 pain in their rib cage for six months, let me tell you that right now. The aches and pains, the discomfort--those are the easy things to talk about. The physical toll that pregnancy takes on your body is well-documented.
The part that is hard to talk about--the part that is so difficult to verbalize because of the stigma attached to it--is the mental toll that this pregnancy is taking on me. I wasn't expecting constant anxiety. I have a baseline for anxiety due to my panic disorder, but this pregnancy has exacerbated it in a way that I could never have predicted: I'm so, so very sick of being touched.
I'm not talking about the family members that rub my belly, or the way my mom always leans close and whispers to the baby. Or how my daughter loves to snuggle up beside me and talk to her sister, or how she also loves to kiss my belly. Those are moderate annoyances that I put up with because I love my family, and I love my daughter, and I know that they do it to show their love for the baby.
But, guys, there is always a person touching me. Always. Even when she isn't flipping or stretching or playing my kidneys like bongos, she is inside my body, and she is touching me. There are days when it takes every ounce of my strength to not break down in a massive panic attack over that constant touching.
When you bundle together the physical pains with the emotional stress you end up with a very tightly-wound version of me--and I hate it. I hate that it puts additional stress on my marriage because there are days where I just can't function outside of necessity. I hate that I just want to curl up in bed and hibernate for the next 63 days because I just can't deal with the culmination of life right now. I hate that work will always be stressful, but especially when you're six weeks away from leaving for a year and have a huge laundry list of things to do and teach before leaving is even an option. I hate that we had to move when I am seven months pregnant and unable to do anything even remotely helpful. I hate feeling weak, and vulnerable, and frustrated, and useless, and a burden.
Please, for the love of all that is holy and good in this world, let her make her appearance sooner than 63 days. And let her come out clutching a bottle of Chardonnay for me to drink.