I'm thirty weeks in, which means I'm 3/4 of the way to the finish line. Ten weeks to my due date. Seven weeks to that magic full term. Twelve weeks to the worst case scenario - the baby being late.
I'm so torn about that though. At 30 weeks, I am DONE with this pregnancy. I am tired and huge and cranky. I want my baby to be healthy, but I also want him to get his foot out of my diaphragm so I can breath thank you very much. I want to hug my sweet darling little boy, and see what sort of person he is. I want to watch my amazing daughter become a sister.
However, I don't have much leave stored up for this kid. And while I work for a quasi-governmental agency, generally home of the awesome benefits, my institution does not offer maternity leave. I can use whatever leave I have, and then I can take unpaid leave through the Family Medical Leave Act. Which means the later this kid is, the better. We won't have day care till sometime in August. I'd like to continue to be paid for as long as possible.
So I guess my point is that by week 40, I'll be a raging lunatic of pregnancy hormones. I've had a rough first 30 weeks, and I'm not expecting the last 10 to go any better.
I'm crampy. And emotional. And tired. And crampy. And tired of Braxton-Hicks... If I thought I had any of those with Laura, I was clearly wrong. Or maybe what I have this time are real contractions randomly spaced. Either way, I'm just a ray of sunshine.
I'm also tired of everyone telling me I'm huge. Yes, thank you, that's the perfect way to make a hormonal woman feel better.
Tell her, "Wow! You're enormous." (thank you, janitor at work)
Tell her, "Ouch, your ankles are getting fat." (thank you, director at day care)
Tell her, "Ha! You look like you could roll down the hall." (thank you, grocery store clerk)
Tell her all these things, and expect her to smile politely and laugh about how high the baby is riding. Tell her all these things, and wonder why she cries instead. No belly picture today, because I really don't need to see how huge I am.