8 Reasons I Am Hating The Last Month of Pregnancy

I am deeply weary of anyone who claims they loooooove being pregnant. I can’t tell if they’re liars or idiots or Gwyneth Paltrow, but I don’t trust any of them. The brain has some kind of fantastic, memory-erasing hormone that makes you forget just how shitty this all is, and amen to that because the human race wouldn’t have a damn prayer otherwise.

It’s a month out from go-time over here, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to muster up the emotional fortitude to make it through until then if I’m not allowed to binge drink. So the next time you encounter a VIP (Very Impregnated Person), here’s some things to keep in mind that these poor creatures have to deal with. Be kind to them, and get that unfortunate soul a donut. STAT.

1. My boobs have issued a loud and clear FUCKOFF to any ideas about my body maintaining some sort of shadow of what it once was. The average woman will gain three pounds per breast while pregnant. One of mine gained it all and the other is giving me middle school flashbacks. My only hope at a decently fitting bra is to cut two in half and reconstruct the pieces into one Frankenbra. If you catch me leaning to the side when I walk, well, now you know. Gravity’s a bitch.

2. I’m coming up on 36 weeks and my midwife reminded me that it will be time for my Strep B test. “You remember what that means?” Let’s lose the subtleties, lady. Yes, I remember that you’re going to stick a Q-tip in my butt. That’s a level of intimacy where you can just call a spade a spade, my friend.

3. Everyone I know is telling me I’m carrying so high. Well, I feel like I’m one sneeze away from knowing what color hair my baby has. If this is high, low must be when the crotch of your pants is sagging around your knees because they’re chock full of baby. I honestly don’t know how the hell I could carry any lower without crowning.

4. Complete strangers have been telling me, “You’re almost done!” with an enthusiastic air-punch for emphasis. I’ve got four weeks left, Anonymous Andy. That’s 28 days. 672 hours. 40,320 minutes. Turn in the opposite direction of my enthusiastic face-punch and RUN if you’ve got two brain cells to rub together. Order me a pizza when you get where you’re going, and don’t forget to tip.

5. The phrase “barefoot and pregnant” always puzzled me because I didn’t get why the two things were associated. Well, feet, I have received the message, loud and clear. I’m done wearing shoes. My feet have swollen into personal floatation devices. Pretty sure I could make a few bucks and gain my own flock of followers by walking on water right about now. Even when I wear flip flops, my skin swells around the straps until you can barely see them. Anyone who can wear heels this late in the game is either a cyborg or Gwyneth Paltrow and again, I don’t trust you.

6. Speaking of swelling, my wedding rings are enjoying a breather on my bedside table. I almost had to cut those suckers off. Add “freeing your sausage fingers from their white gold prison” to a list of 769 Uses For Coconut Oil.

7. Earlier in my pregnancy, if someone came up to rub my belly, it wasn’t that bad because at least it meant that I actually looked pregnant and not just like an anthropomorphic dough ball. Now? The skin is so stretched and the highly puke-inducing sensitive skin of my belly button has attained an impressive amount of real estate. Every time someone rubs my belly and irritates that skin, I jump and let out a noise that sounds like something a constipated llama would bellow. It’s partly on purpose because STOP TOUCHING ME.

8. If one more jackass tell me I’m eating for two… I swear to shit, the next person that chuckles that phrase when I reach for a cupcake is going to get crop-dusted within an inch of their life. Everything hurts and nothing feels good, except this goddamn magnificent cupcake and I will END YOU if you take one crumb of that joy away from me. The only reason you should be telling me I’m eating for two is to hand me another fucking cupcake, in a tone that conveys how skinny and underfed I look to you.

There is not a single tale of a 97-hour labor without pain meds that could scare me off the path to birth at this point. The only thing in my sights right now is being able to sit down on a toilet without having to trust-fall backwards. I don’t care how much Eternal Sunshine of the Unpreg Mind juice my brain releases, nothing is going to make me forget that my nipples have grown to a size that can be seen from space.