I’m two-thirds cooked these days.
Two-thirds round and waddling, two-thirds wheezing and pausing, two-thirds rotund and awkward. It really is a monumental occasion reaching this third trimester mark, one I have certainly not passed up celebrating. I may have treated myself to a plate of seconds at dinner (a few times), may have even gotten really wild and baked myself a double layer cake in tribute to my state of expanding plumpness. However, all this being said, I know as well as anyone how far I really have to go. This is where stuff gets real, because these last few weeks, well, they’re not really the pretty ones … to say the least. In fact, I’d really just have to summarize them as simply awkward.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly humbled and thankful for the blessings of this growing belly, the double digit countdown to holding my newest warm bundle of child, the now constant undulations of the inner rolling, jigging and karate chopping, the special moments shared as my sweet children, my oldest in particular, linger over my midsection.
“Mom,” she started the other day. Something about the inquisitive tone in her voice, and I knew what was coming. “How is the baby going to get out?” I pause, trying to channel the fullest of mommy wisdom that I know must be there somewhere within … somewhere deep within … Crickets. “Well, dear … God does a miracle.” I nodded emphatically, probably more to myself for coming up with this obscure, modest answer. “No, but HOW does she get out?” This time the tone was more insistent and direct as she poked and prodded at my popped belly button curiously. “It’s a miracle!” I repeat, this time adding a bit of mystical inflection to my answer, hoping to both satisfy and stump simultaneously. “Mommy, no. Really. HOW does that baby get out!?” It’s official, she wants to know the specifics. I take a deep breath. Prepare myself for THE answer. “Oh, I know. Your belly button is going to stretch and stretch and stretch and she’ll just pop out of it!” And just like that, I’m off the hook. “Maybe. Let’s watch Sesame Street.”
See, as awkward as this sounds both in my avoidance and El’s concocted explanation, something I’ve figured out through these forty months of professional baby-growing is, it’s all really only par for this uncomfortable third-trimester course.
How about my latest facial decor – see, despite the weather, temperature or activity, I have recently acquired a constantly drippy, runny nose. Actually, some of my insomniatic middle of the night research has revealed that this is one of the most common (Google didn’t happen to mention “lovely”…) discomforts of pregnancy. There’s a whole scientific explanation, and yes, I could add that to the list of medical ailments I am continuing to collect this go-around, but I won’t bore you. I’ll just ask you to politely avoid referencing the wad of Kleenex I have resorted to holding in my hand at all times, its white linty residue I may be sporting under my nostrils and finally the goose-style honk coming from the restroom after I excuse myself every ten minutes to clear out the persistent stream of grossness. Too much information? A little squeamish? Okay, I won’t even start on my varicose veins let alone my inguinal hernia.
But, while I’m discussing the awkward medical ailments this journey of pregnancy entails, I can’t help but mention my Rh negative status. Now,while this doesn’t mean too much thanks to today’s medical advances, it does mean that once I hit the third trimester point, I have the pleasure of receiving a huge pull-your-britches-down-bend-over-hands-on-the-wall-style shot in the rump. Awesome.
And, I might add, awkward. See, it doesn’t just pinch and sting, it actually hurts – really dang bad. At my last office visit, I actually ran into my also pregnant sister (due eight days before me) as she was leaving. I noticed immediately the added limp to her waddle. Upon questioning, she reminded me that this was the shot visit and proceeded to describe the excruciating pain. My buttocks actually started aching from that very point through the introduction of the gigantic needle, through the nurse’s grab and hold of my so very ample behind and right into the next day.
A few days later, the lab followed up with me (just as my own limp was starting to subside, I might add). “Well, everything looks pretty good…” they started. I noted the pause. “But, the doctor wanted to know, have you been feeling a little tired lately?” Hmm. Where should I start?
The count of times I woke up through the night due to bad dreams, diaper changes or simply my own raging hormones, the number of timeouts administered, the rounds of “Wheels on the Bus” sung, the loads of laundry started, finished and promptly dumped and scattered by munchkins who shall remain nameless, the squabbles pacified, the number of nap strikes suffered, the manners enforced, the meals cooked, the tears wiped (including my own)…
“Tired? Hmm … not particularly, or maybe yes, I don’t really know anymore.” “Well, let’s add some iron to your vitamin regimen, you’re a little low.” No problem. And then the awkward tidbit: “but don’t forget, you’ll need a stool softener, too.” Ah, yes, of course.
See, as perhaps you may now agree with me, this third trimester is undoubtedly the most awkward of them all. But, really, I should be used to it by now. Apparently, having recently calculated that this April, I will actually have been pregnant forty out of the last sixty months, somehow along the way I must’ve also calculated that, just like the journey for any good thing, it’ll be worth it. Those warm, mushy snuggles, those flutter breaths and pursed perfect lips, those tiny fingers and sleepy melts into my chest … I know this three times over now, and it’s worth it every time.
Just do me a favor and remind me of that when you see my waddling, limping, iron-deficient self. If you’re looking for me, just follow the sound of obnoxious honking to the nearest Kleenex stash.
(Editor’s note: If you’d like to see more photos like these, you can follow Allison French on Instagram at@allisoncorrin.)
About the author: Allison French is the mother of Ellie, Tristan, and Judah and one-in-the-oven living in south Kansas City with her hubby of seven years, Chris. Except for her college years in the Little Apple of Manhattan, Kansas, she’s always lived in Kansas City and is proud to be able to confidently navigate the 435 loop and beyond. She taught first and fifth grade in Blue Valley for six years but with the birth of her third munchkin, took some time off from teaching to establish her photography business,Allison Corrin Photography. Between dirty diapers, noisy time-outs, piled-up dishes and the never-ending laundry, she also blogs their everyday adventures and musings of motherhood over at Life With the Frenchs. An ideal start to the day for Allison would include getting up while it’s still dark (and quiet), a good cup (or four, when she’s not pregnant) of creamed-up coffee, a lit scented candle, reading one of the (at least three) books she’s always in the middle of, a little blogging followed by a long run or dancing at her Jazzercise class and would conclude with baking something sweet … and then eating it.
