Although I have just recently crossed into the Land o’ the Second Trimester it feels as though I’ve set up camp in the Uncomfortable Desert of the Third. My belly is already getting in the way of everything. When I bend down to pick up Avelyn’s toys off the floor, I have to hoist my gut up in one hand to make room to bend at the waist. I can no longer sit up to get out of bed; it’s time to roll like a bloated log to the edge of the mattress and ease myself out with a grunt for good measure. We have had quite a bit of company the past few weeks and the little jobs like cooking a big meal or changing some bed sheets have left me worse for wear and feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck (or, as Avelyn would say, “ah f%#k”). If I am already feeling this way at (not even) six months, how am I going to make it through three more months of increasing discomfort through the sweltering summer?
In other news, I kind of hate my hair. I think that if I were not pregnant and were feeling like my old, svelte(ish) self I would be digging the cool style and chic cut I’ve got right now. But with my body growing larger by the hour I feel like having short hair makes me look a little pin-headed, as though my skull is too tiny for my frame. I need some longer layers of tresses to hide behind. And so, I am officially growing my hair out.
I am never satisfied.