I'm at 27 weeks. That's a little more than six months. I have at least 11 weeks to go, but likely 13, and possibly even 15. I don't like this. I really, really don't. To hell with the expectations of what this should be like. It's awful. Even the kicks. I appreciate the reassurance of a healthy, incredibly strong baby inside me kicking and rolling, but it would be nice if it took a breather once in awhile so I could get comfortable.
The only nice thing is the social aspect from time to time. People like me to sit, often in the best and most comfortable seat, and I can accept guilt-free. I'm hearing how great I look, which is nice. I don't recall the last time I got so many compliments. For all I know, this whole thing could destroy me, so I should probably soak in the good feedback now.
|The Dude took some maternity shots of me.|
It's 2:00 a.m. and I can't go to bed. I'm propped up on the couch to avoid choking on my own bile. My greatest worry right now is that this is what I can expect for the rest of my pregnancy. I wish more women talked about how hard this can be. Maybe I would have been more prepared. There seems to be some kind of cone of silence surrounding the ordeal this is.
I wish I could sleep.