Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Goodyear Blimp
I’ve had a relatively easy pregnancy. There have been some issues, but for the most part, they have been minor.
Not anymore.
They warn you early on that you may swell.They mean due to water retention. I’ve gone 9.5 months without it and now it’s hitting me all at once - that, or I have Elephantitis of the Ankles. None of my shoes fit. None of my clothes fit. I had to wrench my wedding and engagement rings off my fingers because I thought they might cut the circulation off.
I’m like one of the balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I need 20 handlers with ropes strapped to my body to keep me from bouncing into the surrounding buildings. I soar over the city, ridiculously benevolent smile etched permanently on my overinflated face, praying that high winds don’t blow me into the nearby power lines.
I’m afraid that in the middle of the night Scott will hear “skree... skreeeee.... skreeEEE.... BOOM!” and wake up, terrified, but unable to find me because I will have exploded from the pressure.
I’ve never been so uncomfortable in all my life.
I’ve taken to torturing Scott with stupid crap I know will annoy him, but that I find funny as hell. Like, a tiny little baby spider dropped from the ceiling right in front of my face. I hate spiders, bugs, anything with an exoskeleton. So I whine for Scott to get it for me, and then - I swear - it bit me. I mean, I didn’t see it bite me. Or even land on me. But there was a sharp stabbing feeling on my ankle (yes, one of the swollen ones).
I spent about 20 minutes insisting that I was dying and demanding he suck out the venom, call poison control, call a doctor, anything. It was making me laugh, but he gets really worried about me so I had to stop before his head exploded.
I never understood those pregnant women who got angry with their husbands for assisting in getting them pregnant. But I’m so pissed off at Scott right now that I don’t even know where I am most of the time. I’ve told him to fuck off about 8 times in the last week, and I hate speaking to him that way. It’s not fair to him. But I want to throw myself on the floor, kicking and screaming, blaming him. I know he’s spent 9 months worrying about me, taking care of me, and preparing for the baby in various ways.
HOWEVER, he’s also spent the last 9 months “trying” to quit smoking and drinking. I didn’t have nine months warning to work on it. I had to quit everything right away - not that I smoke all that often; like one a month, max. But he also hasn’t had to give up sushi, wine, feta cheese, deli meat, and 100 other small dietary considerations that seem tailor-made from the “Stacey’s Favorite Foods” list. He ordered a dozen raw oysters at Rhinehart’s on Sunday and proceeded to eat them right in front of me, knowing I can’t have any!
Then there’s all the physical things you hear about being pregnant that I have to suffer but he doesn’t: constipation, thirst, hunger, weight gain, back pain, abdominal pain, nausea, fatigue, mood swings, painful contractions... I had a bladdar infection and a sinus infection at the same time, and the antibiotics I took for them gave me a yeast infection, even though I ate about 20 containers of yogurt to help prevent it (sorry, boy readers).
What I’m saying is that I AM the irrational, horrible wife pissed off at my husband for the way I feel. I warned Scott that he should probably head for Canada when I go into labor. He laughed. I wonder if he noticed that I didn’t...
Not anymore.
They warn you early on that you may swell.They mean due to water retention. I’ve gone 9.5 months without it and now it’s hitting me all at once - that, or I have Elephantitis of the Ankles. None of my shoes fit. None of my clothes fit. I had to wrench my wedding and engagement rings off my fingers because I thought they might cut the circulation off.
I’m like one of the balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I need 20 handlers with ropes strapped to my body to keep me from bouncing into the surrounding buildings. I soar over the city, ridiculously benevolent smile etched permanently on my overinflated face, praying that high winds don’t blow me into the nearby power lines.
I’m afraid that in the middle of the night Scott will hear “skree... skreeeee.... skreeEEE.... BOOM!” and wake up, terrified, but unable to find me because I will have exploded from the pressure.
I’ve never been so uncomfortable in all my life.
I’ve taken to torturing Scott with stupid crap I know will annoy him, but that I find funny as hell. Like, a tiny little baby spider dropped from the ceiling right in front of my face. I hate spiders, bugs, anything with an exoskeleton. So I whine for Scott to get it for me, and then - I swear - it bit me. I mean, I didn’t see it bite me. Or even land on me. But there was a sharp stabbing feeling on my ankle (yes, one of the swollen ones).
I spent about 20 minutes insisting that I was dying and demanding he suck out the venom, call poison control, call a doctor, anything. It was making me laugh, but he gets really worried about me so I had to stop before his head exploded.
I never understood those pregnant women who got angry with their husbands for assisting in getting them pregnant. But I’m so pissed off at Scott right now that I don’t even know where I am most of the time. I’ve told him to fuck off about 8 times in the last week, and I hate speaking to him that way. It’s not fair to him. But I want to throw myself on the floor, kicking and screaming, blaming him. I know he’s spent 9 months worrying about me, taking care of me, and preparing for the baby in various ways.
HOWEVER, he’s also spent the last 9 months “trying” to quit smoking and drinking. I didn’t have nine months warning to work on it. I had to quit everything right away - not that I smoke all that often; like one a month, max. But he also hasn’t had to give up sushi, wine, feta cheese, deli meat, and 100 other small dietary considerations that seem tailor-made from the “Stacey’s Favorite Foods” list. He ordered a dozen raw oysters at Rhinehart’s on Sunday and proceeded to eat them right in front of me, knowing I can’t have any!
Then there’s all the physical things you hear about being pregnant that I have to suffer but he doesn’t: constipation, thirst, hunger, weight gain, back pain, abdominal pain, nausea, fatigue, mood swings, painful contractions... I had a bladdar infection and a sinus infection at the same time, and the antibiotics I took for them gave me a yeast infection, even though I ate about 20 containers of yogurt to help prevent it (sorry, boy readers).
What I’m saying is that I AM the irrational, horrible wife pissed off at my husband for the way I feel. I warned Scott that he should probably head for Canada when I go into labor. He laughed. I wonder if he noticed that I didn’t...
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