… you can no longer remove your rings without contemplating amputation
… you can easily go back for seconds on the chocolate shavings / shortbread crumbs you’ve collected in that groove between your breastplate and your bulge
… no matter how high you’ve filled your bathtub, you want to sing “Islands in the Stream” when you’re soaking in it.
I am at the cusp of the third and final trimester, and while I’ve been valiantly staving off frumpy footwear and Fat Mama fashion thus far, I am starting to get the aches and pains that come with a burgeoning belly. One evening this week, I suddenly felt as if my rib cage were pulled apart by two metal wires retracting in opposing directions and if I didn’t know better, I could have sworn that Blobette was gripping a right rib with her toes while all that was happening.
Meanwhile, finding the optimal sleeping position is as elusive as the quest for WMD, and I usually wake up with some kind of shoulder ache. My new favourite toy: this wooden three-prong nobby thing that works like a three-fingered ninja massage of death. Apparently, I’m suppposed to rub it along my back in wide, gentle figure-eights. Yeah whatever. Most evenings now, I just prop it up against the back cushion and cheerfully stab myself with it.
For the curious:
As for Blobette, she’s starting to pack more of a punch when she decides to do the amniotic riverdance. Which is delightful because I know she’s alive and well. But it’s also distracting, especially when I’m chairing a meeting and suddenly find myself pulling odd faces.
But don’t get me wrong, people. Don’t even think for a second that I’m having a dawg-awful time. Because I’m loving this.
I'm open to making contact, getting feedback, reviewing your product, and even writing for cash or stardom. Just so you know.
Interested? PM me at:
yummy.mummy.train [at] gmail [dot] com