9.6.19 1

Twenty-Two Weeks

22 weeks pregnant. That’s bananas. That means I’m full term in like, three months. I’m guessing once I’m large and in charge, the weeks may slow down a little, but for right now, I can’t even believe I’ve made it this far. I’m really excited to do very little this weekend. It’s weird, I’m simultaneously super-zen and hyper-stressed. When it comes to baby — the prep work, etc. — I’m a little anxious. I’m no good at being bad at things, and by virtue of being a rookie, I simply don’t know what I’m doing yet. On the other hand, things that would have bothered me before seem stupid. I feel calmer in general, like things don’t get to me as much; or, if they do, I quietly handle it and move along. 

I’m sure the sobriety helps as well. Que sera sera, that’s neither here nor there.

Basically, I don’t want anything to spike my blood pressure, raise my heart rate, or generally stress out this baby I’ve wanted for so long. It seems easy, then, to make decisions in that light. Nothing seems hard anymore when it involves what’s best for this kid.

(don’t mind my bumps — these jeans are old and the button part curls!)

Physically? Holy crap, we’ve reached the uncomfortable portion of our programming. Even with my wunderpillow, the Leachco Snoogle, I’m finding myself waking up at night uncomfortable and tossing. Last night? Maybe 45 minutes of sleep. Kid was having a glowstick rave in my midsection, I couldn’t get comfortable, Dale ended up diagonal … the holy trinity of sleeplessness. On the bright side, I got some great work done at 4am.

And just go ahead and forget about extended car rides. We came back from seeing Ruth Bader Ginsburg speak in Little Rock last Tuesday (little critter was grooving, so I have high hopes that we have an auto-feminist brewing), and I flopped all over that heated seat, going so far as to actually take my pants off. Not unbutton. Took them off, O-F-F, off. Quite a sight to behold. This is how desperate I am for comfort. It’s mainly in my back, but my butt and legs aren’t without pain either.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, if this is the worst it’s gotten, I know I should be thankful, yada yada yada, cue the sanctimommies telling me it will be worse next time around because I’ll have to chase another kid, whatever, save it. I’ve definitely encountered a few of those already.

//rant // an ode to the smug sanctimommy.

“It will be worse when …” 

“You just don’t even know …”

“You should be thankful that … ”

Like, what is the point of a misery competition? You don’t get extra stars on the mommy board for having a more miserable pregnancy than I’ve had. Or, for that matter, a more miserable mothering experience. You also don’t win the Queen Mommy Competition by virtue of simply keeping a few of them alive.

“Busier” is not an indicator of “better.”

More kids does not equate to more wisdom (I worked for the foster care system, I venture to say that you can trust me on that tidbit).

I’d love some advice. It’s overwhelming, and I’d love to learn from moms who have done it before. What I wouldn’t love is a side-by-side comparison of how much easier I seem have it than you did (while it has been fairly easy, symptoms-wise, I also work for a giant corporation that demands a lot of my time, attention, and energy), accompanied by a lecture about how grateful I should be (I am). Tell me to butter my nipples, buy the cheap-o ugly bouncy seat, and practice my meditation. Don’t bother with invalidating my experiences and feelings because they look different from your own.

// rant over // 

(okay, that was probably hormones)

Weight. I’m not entirely sure because I’m relying on my doctor’s scale (y’all know the struggle of competing scales). I’d guess somewhere around nine to ten pounds. Still hard to say without wanting to do something about it (*headslap*), but I’m slowly getting there.

Looks. I have enough of a tummy for people to touch it. Apparently. I was approached by a woman in Dillards who fondled Lil’ Dumplin without permission. She was a nice enough lady (I’d spoken with her for a few minutes prior), but it’s still a little strange to have strangers touching me. I’ve yet to come across the haven’t had-the-pregnant-confirmation-conversation-touch, thank God. I mean, sometimes it looks like a baby, but sometimes it looks like a drunken Crunch Wrap, and how does anyone know you aren’t rubbing last night’s regret-inducing Taco Bell run? You don’t, Sharon.

Generally, my stomach fluctuates still. I feel like my 22 week pic looks smaller than my 20 week pic? IDK what that devilry is.

Outside of the little growth on my tummy, can we talk about the enormous growths on my chest? To be clear, I was never a tiny-tittied gal prior to Rosie Crystal — I was a solid 34D-DD. But now??? I’m flabbergasted at myself now. I’d so love to be a bralette girl, but not with the twins knocking around up top. I tried one, a cute one from Lululemon, and both nips ended up escaping out the top. Le sigh.

Food cravings. Still on the orange juice kick. I’ve never been much of an OJ gal, outside of splashing a little in champagne so that I don’t look like a lush at 9am (really, it’s just a little orange food coloring). Now, though, I can’t get enough, especially when it’s good and cold. Other than that, though, no real cravings. Right now, I’ll get hungry, but nothing stands out as sounding especially good.

I read that Lil’ Dumplin is swallowing now, and that my current eating habits could possibly influence what he/she likes, taste-wise, in the future. That’s reason enough for me to be sure I’m getting lots of good stuff down the gullet — some greens, some fruit, and the occasional dairy-free Ben & Jerry’s, amen.

Clothes. Last week, I cried at work because I couldn’t get my pants to rebutton in the bathroom. That was a low point. From that moment forward, I started looking into maternity pants. I bought a pair of shorts to wear to the Oklahoma game on Sunday (they were okay, but full panel, and by the end of a 100-degree day, I felt like I was imprisoned inside a sausage casing). I also ordered a pair of J Brand jeans to try, but if y’all have any suggestions, please let me know. I’ll be happy when the weather cools down a little and I don’t feel like I’m sweating with every miniscule move I make. I feel for you gals who are extra pregnant during the summer.

Movement. Lil’ Dumplin is cruising. I think he/she will be a gymnast like me. Flips and flops and rolls and karate chops. I love feeling Dumplin move around. That’s been the part that has made it feel real for me, especially now. In the beginning, Dumplin could be mistaken for indigestion. Not anymore.

The feels. ALL the feels. All that emotion that was absent in the first twenty weeks, that whole thing about being afraid I wasn’t connecting to my kid? I found it all. Holy cow. Lil’ Dumplin is on the list for the daycare I’ve chosen, and that was a weepy moment too. Picking my kid’s first educational institution …. (cue the tears again)

I get to shop Rhea Lana early this evening, so I’ll be hitting up Instagram starting around 5:30pm CT. I have no idea what I’m doing, nor do I know whether I should buy any dresses, so it could be very interesting. Y’all sign on with me and let me know!

Leave a Comment


  1. Elizabeth Prenger wrote:

    Girl, you’re doing great!! Definitely nipple cream constantly early in nursing (you can’t do it too much) and the cheap bouncer totally won over the expensive MamaRoo that I was told I “had to have” . Something no one ever warned me about, and I wasn’t prepared for, is that the second the baby comes out of your vagina (or abdomen, in my case) , people feel inclined to ask you when you’re having your second child. They won’t even give you an effing week with this one before they want you to have another. Prepare your thoughts so your raging hormones don’t make you say something you’ll regret

    Published 9.9.19