Pregnancy is a miracle and it’s amazing to see what our bodies are capable of and I’m lucky to be able to do it when there are women out there who are unable to despite wanting it badly.
Okay got that out of the way.
‘Cause guess what? An 8-month pregnant belly pretty much blows. It gets in the way of everything. It makes finding a comfortable sleeping position about as attainable as a satisfying ending to Serial. My ribs feel like they’re going to crack in two when I lay down, my lungs start gasping like dying goldfish if I don’t prop myself up in the correct way with roughly 7.5 pillows, and each act of bending down to pick up things (and in my house there is a. lot. of. shit. to pick up off the floor. All the time.) is like a mini-trip up Mt. Everest–lots of preparation, fear, and perseverance involved.
And then there is the unnerving fact that it now fully obstructs all hope of a view of anything below my bellybutton (oh, that doesn’t exist anymore, BTW). Which means one simply cannot achieve one’s former level of grooming and hygiene standards that one once had. One simply hopes and prays that things are under control, although one realizes that they are most likely NOT under control, and just holds onto the knowledge that anyone other than ones’ self who may have to deal with that area either (A) is your husband and can deal, or (B) is a professional who deals with unkempt, belly-hidden nether regions all the time and thus isn’t going to flinch. One presumes.
One cannot wait for the day when one’s body is back to being somewhat recognizable again (one knows that that could be many, many months from now. If not years. Heaven help us.)