Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Pity Party.

Some days, you just have to revel. Sometimes, you are just so miserable, the only way to move past it is to fully acknowledge and own it. So here I am, pity party of one. Last night, as I lay in bed next to my trash can, clutching my bottle of Zofran, I was a mess. Like, understood people that cut their babies out of themselves type of mess. I'm just SO. OVER. IT.

And we're looking at sixteen more weeks of this nonsense. That doesn't bode well.

I know there are people out there that "love" being pregnant (LIARS!!!!). I am just not one of them. If you want a post that delights in the miracle that is growing a human being, this isn't the post for you. I f*#$ing HATE this. I hate not being able to sleep on my stomach. I hate how badly my hips and tailbone and back hurt already. I HATE BEING FAT. And don't say, "You're not fat, you're pregnant," in that patronizing tone. I am a round, rotund ball of obese disgusting-ness, and I have 16 more weeks of putting on weight to go before I can start taking it back off, with anxiety about how that's even going to be possible the entire time. BLEH. I just hate it.

In case that wasn't enough hatred to go around, I'm still sick. Like, laying in bed wondering if I have a stomach bug or food poisoning on a regular basis, but nope - then I wake up feeling decent enough again, because my "morning" sickness tends to really knock me on my ass at night. Last night, I literally cried myself to sleep because I was so miserable, only to be woken up by my little mommy monster an hour later because Ava ONLY WANTS MOMMY!!!! (her yelling, not mine) all the freaking live long day and night. Last night, she had to go potty and wouldn't let David take her or go by herself, and I had only just fallen asleep long enough to forget the nausea and moving made it come back and I just cried and cried and sobbed until we were all awake and miserable and I remembered that one of the many reasons I'm anti guns in the home is for moments like this when I would like to be put out of my misery. And yes, that sounds ridiculously dramatic now, but try throwing up for 23 weeks and then let's talk. You know you're not in a good place when your doctor ups your Zofran dosage from twice daily to SIX TIMES DAILY, knowing full well that anyone who took Zofran six times a day would never shit again.

Ok. Rant over. 16 weeks, and they'll be pulling this little demon out of me, and he'll morph from the devil into the world's best baby and I'll be head over heels in love with him because people? I deserve it.

112 days to go.

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