The part where the fun part ends

In case I ever decide to do this again, in case you ever plan to actually get pregnant, here's a note for you:

32 weeks is where the fun part kind of ends. You know, the part where you have this cool belly and you can feel the baby kicking and you pretty much feel good most of the time and you still get a full night's sleep and you can walk up a set of stairs without feeling like you ran a marathon.

32 weeks is kind of where all those parts abruptly end.

It's the point where finding a comfortable position to sit, or lay in bed, or stand, or walk, is virtually impossible without (and sometimes even with) a load of props and pillows and way more space than you previously needed. Where you spend the night rolling from pillow to pillow, wedging them between or under various body parts in order to try to keep yourself from having paranoid traumatized dreams about hot pokers being sunk into your hips.

It's where you face the horrible choice: do I still take the Zantac even though it blocks me up solid and causes my hemmorhoids to become the size of small European countries, or do I stop taking it and then end up waking up 8 times a night to the feeling of my stomach merrily eating itself from the inside out on an acid trip?

It's where you no longer have the option of putting socks on and therefore need to wear flip-flops at all times - which would normally not be a downside, but if it's 2 degrees and raining, I kind of enjoy having a selection of footwear from which to choose.

It's where you start to have horrible revelations like Oh, god. I think I have already had the last good night's sleep I will ever have in my life and jesus, I didn't even know it or, when you're cupping the baby's head as it presses against your side and you realize Holy crap. That head is already way, way bigger than my vagina.

It's when you drop things on the floor and instead of bending down (ha!) to pick them up, you realize it's easier to just push them to the edge of the stairs with your feet and then go down the stairs and reach back to pick up whatever it was. Which is fine if it's keys. Not so fine if it's raw egg.

It's where you start taking your bras off and realize in horror you've been leaking.

It's not a question of regret or wishing this wasn't happening - hell, not at all. It's a question of, shit, we've been doing this for millenia, surely we must be able to figure out a better way?. Incubator sacs. Or - temporary fetus holders so that mothers to be can get a good night's sleep!

But really, I know what this part is all about. It's the body doing some strategic planning. This is the part that starts to suck so much that you actually don't care your body is going to painfully attempt to turn itself inside out in mere weeks. It's the part where you start to think maybe it won't be so bad, that head the size of my palm merrily traipsing through my vagina.

Apparently it's all part of some grand master plan. My body has taken over, despite my head's strenuous objections.

Biology is so weird.