On Tuesday, I read something about how usually the end of your pregnancy heralds the return of the dreaded reflux as the baby is pushing everything around and back up your throat. And I thought, well, I’m surprised I dodged that bullet as I am prone to reflux for absolutely no good reason when NOT pregnant. And also, constipation is supposed to return too, which I haven’t had more than a mild problem in the first trimester.
Of course, I spoke too soon. By the time I went to bed Tuesday night, the ice cream I’d devoured as a snack was crawling back up my throat. Yesterday, despite eating very carefully, I had an unrelenting bubble hovering at the top of my esophagus all day and was burping up acid by dinnertime. Given the reflux situation, I fully expect my bowels to also seize up full-stop any second now.
And while we’ve descended to the level of speaking of poop (feel free to skip on down to the pix if you don’t think you’re up for this convo), I am about to reveal something that NO ONE has warned me about. Not any book, even the crude Jenny McCarthy or the hilariously out of date Girlfriends guide (a stirrup pant catsuit makes a great maternity wardrobe staple!), nor even the most candid of blogger. Forget pooping on the table as the ultimate pregnancy indignity; at least that is over and done with quickly, you don’t have to look at it, and most times, you don’t even know you did it. What I am talking about is the increasing difficulty I am having in wiping my own ass. I don’t know if I have teeny tiny tyrannosaurus-rex arms or what, but the daily constitutional is requiring an increasingly difficult series of contortions now. I swear, I spend approximately 3 times as long in the bathroom now, trying to ensure an adequate job. The concept of a bidet is starting to look more and more appealing…(And lest you think I’m weirdly abnormal, a friend who’s had two kids confirmed that this is a very real late pregnancy issue.)
And we’re done with the poop talk. Sorry, just had to get that off my chest.
And now, picture time! Now that it is growing daily, I think the belly warrants weekly photo documentation going forward. So here it is at 35 weeks!
Sorry, no more matching shirt, a. it’s 90° out and that’s a long sleeved shirt and b. I’m not hauling my fat ass upstairs just for a wardrobe change these days. (I have on occasion actually considered sitting around on the couch in my underwear when I’ve really wanted to get off my binding pants, but not so much I wanted to go upstairs and get some loose shorts.)