Counting Down

Last night, I was tossing and turning, trying to get to sleep, (albeit slowly, as it's tough for a whale to do any serious thrashing around), and I realized that I hate the last week or two of my pregnancies.  I hate feeling ginormous.  I hate the sense of impending change, no matter how amazing that change proves to be.  I hate worrying over the way my life or my kids' life will be affected by the new addition.  I hate not being able to bend down without feeling like I might not make it back up.  For this one and the last, I hate knowing that I'm headed into a major surgery complete with its risks.  I hate being constantly tired and knowing that the end of that exhaustion is no where near in sight.  I hate heartburn and muscle aches and sore feet and insane mood swings. 

No matter how often I try to change perspectives, the last two weeks are a time of pessimism and worry, only very lightly speckled over with anticipation and excitement. 

It always seems as if things settle into a lovely rhythm just before the births, too.  Both of my kids are now sleeping easily through the night.  They're going to bed without a fight.  They're learning to play together.  Our schedule is predictable and they seem to be thriving.  And I'm about to have another kiddo to add to the mix to mess with sleep schedules, attention levels, behavior patterns, etc.

It stresses me out. 

And I know, I know that once he's here, things will be wild and crazy for awhile but we'll find our way.  And I know that I'm going to find reserves of love yet untapped to pile over this kid just as I did with my last two.  I know all of this, I do.

But the last couple of weeks of pregnancy?  They still stink.