Dear Third Trimester,
Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm f***ing over you, dude!
Oh how I'm missing the second trimester. He was so kind to me- making me feel all glowy and cute and sassy. Sometimes I daydream, remembering the days of no hip pain and being able to breathe. You know, the little things... I know you're just doing your job and getting me to my delivery date, but you should know that I'm just not that into you.
Thanks to you, I might as well cancel my gym membership and join Curves. The other day a seventy-five year old woman broke a sweat power-walking on the treadmill next to me while I could hardly move one foot in front of the other.
But to be fair, perhaps you shouldn't shoulder all of the blame-- maybe the the second trimester could've warned me that YOU were coming. I was in such a blissful state full of energy and excitement that when you showed up, I felt like I was hit over the head with a giant box of Pampers.
Faster than you can say "heartburn" I would've prepared myself for your arrival. Because just like clockwork, the day you showed up on the scene, my skin began to break out, all I wanted to eat was chocolate, I began waddling like a duck and sleep became non-existent. In fact, it was one morning- about 2:30 a.m. that I had the idea to write this letter to you. I was peeing- yet again- and overcome with frustration- tired of spending more sleeping hours on the toilet than in my bed. Why couldn't you just let me sleep through the night once? And spare me your excuse that you and mother nature are working together to prepare me for what's to come. Whatevs. You and I both know you could give me a night here and there and nobody would get hurt.
And do you really find it necessary that I still randomly hurl? Sometimes I feel like you're getting some sick and twisted pleasure out of this. Like you and the first trimester are in cahoots because you're jealous of my relationship with the second trimester?!
Can we cut some sort of deal here? Like if I agree to stop trashing you on my blog you won't seal my fate and make me spend the last few weeks of my pregnancy sleeping in a chair or worse, standing up?! (I have a friend you did that to!) Or maybe you'll spare me swollen ankles? Or give me a night off from heart burn?
Well, Third Trimester, it looks like either way, we've got eight weeks and six days until the estimated delivery date. So I call a truce. Despite my rants, I've loved being prego (yes, I'm one of those women) and think there's been nothing else in my life this amazing (sorry, honey, but I promise our wedding day was a close second *wink* *wink*). So if you're unwilling to make a deal, I'll suck it up and power on. Because, honestly, I can handle this. I really can. Because in the end, no matter what happens in the next two months (and I realize it could get ugly), the day my baby is born you'll be a distant memory (at least I pray you will).
Best,
Lisa
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