Momedy

I can’t very well keep on blogging about my kids and not dedicate a post to Baby #3.

Bubba, we are all so excited to meet you! I especially am looking forward to it. I’m looking forward to meeting you and holding you … I’m looking forward to eating without vomiting and sneezing without peeing. Though I’m told I might never enjoy that last one again.

That’s me as a newborn. Look at those sweet little demon eyes. I was born at 29 weeks, and for this reason, when I hit the 29 week mark I start to think “alright baby, anytime now.” I mean, not really. But the end is now close enough that uncomfortable starts to feel more like unbearable — like the way Iron Man participants’ legs give out on them as soon as the finish line comes into sight. Although after my six daily trips up and down the basement stairs to do laundry, I know full well that I do not belong in the same sentence as any kind of triathlete.

I do also know that another ten weeks of gestation is in everyone’s best intrest. Except, of course, everyone who has to come in contact with me during those weeks.

Pregnancy does not look good on me. Pregnancy #3 is especially not my color.

For starters, the mood swings are unbelievable. One second I’m sitting down to lunch and feeling the baby kick, smiling to myself and thinking what a wonderful time of life this is. Five minutes later I’m on all fours cleaning the crumbs from under the table and swearing under my breath about how I can’t believe I’m carrying Eric’s third baby in three years, like a freaking broodmare.

One minute I’m laughing and singing “I’m a little teapot” to my kids as I boil the water for my decaf coffee, and the next I’m crying in the bathroom because they just will. Not. Stop. Whining.

One minute I’m listing Pippa for sale on Craigslist and the next I’m crying into her fur begging her to never die.

I have definitely gone from “fun mommy” before pregnancy, to “hangry mommy” the first trimester, to “mean mommy” for the duration. My patience is rock bottom, lower if possible. Sediment. On my very best days, I’m lazy Mommy. This is about all the energy I can muster to play with my kids:

At the top left, you’ll see Evelyn demonstrating a half W sit, which I’m supposed to correct every time to criss-cross-applesauce, but don’t have the energy to do. Looks like you’ll stay low tone a little longer, kiddo. Below that you can see my son’s back as he tries to tunnel under my legs, the only game I have energy for. On my right knee, you see a three day old coffee stain. Because laundry. Too much laundry. On the far right, you’ll see Pippa’s tail, where she’s standing at the window watching chipmunks and farting in my face. I’m still sitting there because moving would take too much energy. She’s farting because letting her out would take too much energy, between wiping four Clydesdale sized paws and then inevitably cleaning dog poop off a toddlers shoe. This is what my kids get right now.

What’s the opposite of a helicopter Mom? I’m calling it a junkyard Mom, and I am her.

Though it hasn’t actually increased, my workload feels like it’s tripled. Getting in and out of the car, for example. Wrangling my screaming, writhing 18-month-old into his rear-facing, back-row car seat without getting kicked in the belly requires a coordination that … well, that isn’t there. Since I have to do this about six times a day, the result is back pain and sciatica so bad that I’m limping from 3:00 on.

I google images of pregnant elephants and cry over their 11 month Gestations. I stub my toe and react in a fit of rage, looking around and finding something to slam as hard as possible. I cringe when I read in my weekly updates that the baby can now hear my voice, because it’s become rather shrill and is more often than not yelling “SIT. DOWN!!” or, quite hypocritically, “STOP. YELLING!!”

Every time I go in for one of my appointments I fantasize that I’ll be put on immediate bed rest.

I also fantasize about foot massages. Like, actually fantasize about them. When I was pregnant with Alex, I was so desperate for someone to touch my feet I ran over my foot with a shopping cart at Pick N Save. It backfired.

This time it’s so bad that I’ve started dreaming about it. Friday night I had one of my many crazy pregnancy dreams. In it, I was standing in the ocean with my parents, my sister and Burt Reynolds. We must have been on vacation, because I was very relaxed and jolly as I led the group in rounds of Row Row Rown Your Boat. All of a sudden, up swam a child ghost. Except it didn’t swim. It floated up in the form of an underwater light, then it materialized into a toddler-sized boy, standing under the water staring up at us. Everyone I was with screamed and splashed away as quickly as possible. I stayed put, and asked the child if he’d give me a foot massage.

Even my subconscious has no shame.

I remind myself this is a phase. Three months from now the baby will be here, three years from now my kids won’t remember the lazy, shouting woman who temporarily took over their mother. Three decades from now I’ll finally have bunyon surgery and while they’re in there they can repair the damage from the shopping cart.

For now I try to remind myself that pregnancy is an enormous blessing, and one that I know I will miss when we’re done having kids.

But you know what else is a blessing? Bladder control.