What they don’t tell you about being Older and Pregnant

They (as in the people who write articles and blogs and all that scientific medical crap) write about fertility dropping and the rates of genetic problems going way up after 40 BUT THEY DON’T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT

It being FREAKING uncomfortable.  Every time the whole thing expands it is painful.  I am not young and limber anymore and I can literally hear the creaking of my bones and joints and round ligaments as they stretch apart.  I spent the last three days in so much pain as my ribs shifted upward.  I could raise my arms.  Every breathe was torment.  Nothing helped.  I also get stiff after I mop the floor and vacuum and although I would love to let someone else do these things I know that I’d be knee deep in bunny shit and cat hair before this is all over and done.

Besides, when I was pregnant eons ago I MOWED THE LAWN on the day I was due and weeded the garden, knowing that it wouldn’t get done while I was gone and that I’d be lucky if my house wasn’t a big drunken party the whole time I was in the hospital.  I’ve folfed during the 40th week.  Hiked.  Walked miles.

And now I mop the floor and sit down for 5 minutes out of breath and I’m so stiff when I get up that people laugh at me.

When I stand up for longer than 5 minutes I feel like the whole thing is pushing so hard on my bladder and other parts and I try to support my overhang with my hands but I just really want to lay down.

I would love to exercise, but coming up the stairs in my house causes me to pant and sit down for a little while.

I am trying to be patient with everyone in my house, but when they can’t find the ENORMOUS trash can in the kitchen or when they wander around in pajamas for days at a time watching Malcolm in the Middle on Netflix I get cranky.  It’s not that I don’t WANT to take an empty carton of orange juice out of the refrigerator that indicates that I was in such a hurry to start the day that I couldn’t take the time to turn around and toss it into the ENORMOUS trash can.  It’s that every movement takes up that much more of my energy.  It’s not that I don’t want to pick up the sweatshirts left dramatically all over the house in various poses of I had to take it off quickly because it was on fire, MOM.  It’s that sometimes I get stuck when I bend my knees to pick something up and no one wants to hear the grunting noise I involuntarily make when I bend at the waist.  It’s not the I mind cleaning out dirty dishes of half eaten cereal that say My sweatshirt was on fire so I left my breakfast and threw it  on the floor on my way to the snowbank.  It’s that there are moments when the sight of food makes me want to vomit and then who’s going to clean that up?

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