The grumpy 37 week post

Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached 37 weeks. If little guy wants to pop out now, ain’t nobody gonna stop him. Especially not me.

It’s come to the point where I am calling B.S. on the whole thing. That happy pregnancy glow? Yeah, it’s gone.

For the past two weeks I have waddled around my world cursing the red lines on my lower abdomen. If your husband/boyfriend/life partner wants to know what the last few weeks of pregnancy feels like, have him sign a waiver stating that he really DID want to know. Then kick him in the crotch.

Walk around with that aftermath for a few weeks, buddy.

My bladder is no longer a trampoline. It is a hat. A hat worn by a very picky boy who must adjust it constantly for just the right fit.

God was pretty smart when He designed this whole experience. If we could feel like we do in the second trimester, we would probably drag pregnancy out a lot longer. We are totally terrified of labor, but it’s a ways off. So we just sit getting chubby, finding excuses to take naps, feeling those cute baby kicks and keeping the nausea to a minimum. It’s nice when everyone around you from the grocery store bag boy to the grumpy old neighbor is suddenly so accommodating.

But their looks of adoration soon turn to dilated eyeballs of sheer terror when you say the words, “any day now!”

Did I mention how comical it is trying to grill a city official for work when they know you could go into labor at any time? In hindsight, it’s pretty funny.

So I’m calling B.S. That Hollywood version of pregnancy is over. I am completely prepared to have a human being the size of a bowling ball wiggle his way out of me. (I reserve all rights to take that statement back in the event of actual labor.)

It is about time to make the transition from sore waddling whale to tired stumbling cow.