Monday, April 11, 2011

Try Not to Hate

In a matter of seconds, I went from being cute pregnant to hippopotamus pregnant.

I feel like ending the update there, but after my last post apparently people expect great things out of me. I should've kept my funny in reserve because it's starting to run out.

After 3 days of 90-degree Atlanta heat--in APRIL--the physicality of my pregnancy can no longer be ignored; despite my constant attempts to do just that.

There was the mountain hike Michael and I tried to do this weekend. I'm not sure why we thought that was a good idea. But by mile...oh wait, we didn't even make it a mile...a half a mile in I gave him the look that said "if we don't get to the air conditioned car in less than five minutes you may be saying goodbye to some body parts you hold dear."

20 minutes later we were eating pizza and drinking cold water so we thought we might live. But we don't do well in the state of contentment. So we decided to play tennis.

Oh yes. You read that right.

Now before you get all up in arms, I didn't actually play tennis. That would be ridiculous.

We drag the tennis ball machine to the courts so Michael can practice his swing and I go around picking up all the balls and refilling the machine. Because a 7-month pregnant women constantly pacing a steaming hot tennis court and bending over 500 times to pick up tennis balls is much less ridiculous.

I would draw a picture of what this looked liked for you, but I'm still tired. So you can go ahead and picture a melted donut with stringy hair and swollen ankles--that about covers it.

An hour later we were lying in bed contemplating all the feasible excuses to get out of dinner plans for the evening. But it was the one instance the pregnancy card wasn't going to work. We were meeting up with the parents of a one-month old. If anyone's tired, it's them.

Luckily I balanced all this physical stress with mental stress on Sunday when I pre-registered for my delivery at the hospital.

At my last appointment the nurse lectured me for 20 minutes about how I needed to be registered because anything can happen from here on out and what if something happens on the way to the parking lot and I'm not registered (thanks for giving me a new thing to obsess about).

Because no one in the history of Ever has gone to the hospital without pre-registering.

So I spent Sunday morning signing consent upon consent to rip my body open using safety scissors and rusted hedge clippers if need be. And acknowledging that I should be left in a pile of bloody tatters if the doctor is suddenly called away for a family BBQ.

Just another glimpse into the weekend of a pregnant woman.

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