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I will trade emotional instability for sleepless nights, no questions asked. I mean, if there weren’t a third, less inconvenient choice February 2, 2010

Posted by Erin F. Wasinger in Being a mama, Kind of unreasonable.

The arrival of the third trimester has smashed to pieces many aspects of life I hold dear: my center of gravity, hips that don’t pop when I walk, uninterrupted sleep, speed and agility. It’s also taken hostage my emotions, which seemed to violently alternate between “have you seen my emotions?” and “HERE, HOLD THIS BAG OF EMOTIONS WHILE I GO HAVE A BREAKDOWN QUICK. THANKS.”

The worst part is, I realize how irrational all the anger, sadness, weepy sappy crap is — but I can’t stop myself. And because I can’t stop myself, it just makes the situation worse. “STOP CRYING,” I’ll say. “I CAAAAAN’T!!!” I’ll whine, inside.

Oh, Dave? Yes, he’s fine, he’s fine. Having the TIME OF HIS FREAKING LIFE over here, I can assure you.

I also feel utterly stuck: It’s February in the grayest state in the union. The landscape is barren of greenery (Alice shrieked “FOOTBALL!” and pointed at a few tan blades of grass poking out from the permafrost. See, the last time she saw real, live grass that wasn’t on a football field she wasn’t yet forming long-term memories). My girth is flirting with ginormous and my self-esteem fell between the couch and the wall the other day and refuses to come out. THIS is the part of pregnancy that so painfully stuck out in my mind from two years ago — and the part I so willingly shed and ran from, saying “NEVER AGAIN!”

You know, before I went and did it again.

Yes, I feel stuck. Those hormones can make my heart flutter like a caged animal’s when I think of the rut in which we’re languishing. (Call it irrational, but remember I haven’t worn a pair of pants with real fly-zippers on them since, what, October? Zippers make you real people, people.)

But you, sitting there all nice in your real pants, thinking “JEEZ, cut out the whining, woman,” also realize how close this means I am to seeing this unnamed baby, this cause of all my messy emotional state and my fluffy belly — 13 weeks. These last 13 weeks are the most trying of all the trimesters on me as a person, as a wife, as someone you might be so unlucky to encounter; but at the end of all this I get a new baby.

Thirteen weeks. Then SHE can do all the crying and I can have that single glass of wine I so desperately need.

Thirteen weeks and I’ll be holding one warm, squishy-cheeked baby for whom I don’t even have a name yet. I don’t know her yet but I expect she’ll remind me it was all worth it. That’s the hope, anyway.



1. Manda - February 4, 2010

If I ever have a baby, I hope I’m as cute as you. You look great!

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