Because just when I think pregnancy really sucks, it snorts in my face and throws some new challenge my way.
Like the chest cold I caught 3 weeks ago from L~. The one that I still have, complete with hacking cough and painful throat. I never get colds - I can count on one hand the number of colds I've had in my life and still be able to flip the virus the goddamn bird. Fine. Bring it, I say.
And then I'm further mocked by a stomach flu, the likes of which I also haven't seen in years. It knocked me flat on my ass for two days last week; worse, it resulted in dehydration and ketones. Big, scary ketones (sans hyperglycemia, how's that for irony!) that had me calling two different hospitals in a panic that the almost-developed sea monkey would suffer a terrible and painful death. I barely avoided DKA and it's been a rough recovery but the little Ninja continues to kick the shit out of my right rib while simultaneously head-butting my bladder. Big. Fucking. PHEWF.
I've gained 60 lbs, 45 of it legit baby belly. 15 lbs has taken up residence on my hips thanks to stress and the first 6 months of morning sickness and being a pregnant and barefoot housewife during winter. I lost 3 lbs last week which I'm sure I'll get shit for at my next Diabetic clinic appointment. I've become a chronic whiner and I groan a lot whilst trying to turn over in bed. I hate stairs. I have cankles for fucks sake!!! I don't sleep. It's 7:30 am right now and I haven't slept a wink at all. But I've peed about eighty-seven times. Seriously, I pee so much now that our water bill has actually increased. Oh, and my left boob??
And if all of that wasn't enough... my lovely Doula has me doing exercises to help prevent tearing during labour. I sit on a Palmolive dish soap bottle filled with warm water (bliss!) and bounce around on an exercise ball a few times a day.
And I'm supposed to massage my perineum. As in, lube up a finger, and rub it in a 'U' shaped pattern at the bottom of my vag while stretching lightly in order to feel the burn. Okay, I'm very familiar with self-exploration, I can handle - -
What. The. Fuck.
Fingers coated in olive oil, ready to rock that hole... And I can't fucking reach it!!!! I twisted. I contorted. I sat on the toilet and tried, I even resorted to doggy-style!
I can't touch my own goddamn vajayjay!!! My arms are not long enough to reach past the freaking planet at my midsection and actually hit gold.
I have hit rock bottom. For all I know, there's mold growing down there and a freaking troll has moved in - after all, I've been sick for almost a week, so there's been a noticeable lack of getting bendy lately.
My femininity dried up. And I cried.
Touché pregnancy, touché.