I’d like to think I’m not a whiny, pregnant lady. I mean, I’ve been strong. People ask me how I feel all the time and I say, “Good, thanks.” I try hard to keep my visible discomforts to myself, and reserve the biggest complaints for my husband (because let’s face it, he deserves it). But I’m eight months pregnant and this is my third baby and I’ll be 35 years old in ten days. There are days when I’m so tired (like today) where the idea of emptying the dishwasher seems comparable to climbing Mt. Everest. Just last week, baby girl’s foot was up in my throat giving me wicked heartburn. My poor boys are sick of eating cheese quesadillas and fruit because it’s the fastest meal I can do with minimal effort and even more minimal cleanup.
Truth is I am not just overwhelmed because I wake up three times a night to pee or because I can’t breathe when sitting down. I feel like I can’t write. My brain is mush. My body is huge. I’d rather browse Etsy and comment on Facebook than think. And I feel so guilty about it. Because I have the time. My kids are in bed by 8pm. My husband is content watching the myriad of crime shows on the DVR. He’d be fine with me disappearing for a couple of hours to work. I could be writing and I should be writing, but I’m….wait, Braxton Hicks contraction…sigh, tired.
I’m taking a mystery writing class online and I have a piece due before Tuesday for critique. I have a little bit done, but I need to work on it for a few hours. Critiques are too valuable to pass up.
Someone tell me it’s okay. That I’m too pregnant and I deserve to cut myself some slack.
I’d blog more, but I’m just too tired………