Occupational hazard for a writer: When your belly pushes your laptop out so far that you can’t type. However, much like Daenerys Targaryen, I am the Mother of Dragons, therefore I’m going to grit my teeth and forge ahead as if I were storming Astapor. (Game of Thrones reference, people!) It’s Memorial Day this weekend, and two of my sisters–Kendra and Cean–are in town visiting. Kendra has left her three kids and husband in Salem, MA, and conquered her fear of flying in order to hang out on my sofa and refill my glass of water. And Cean has traveled with her three year-old, six-month old, and husband to not get any sleep, because, like a jerk, I’ve put them all in the nursery together.

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Discomfort, thy name is me. I know Week 23 Kate was a big proponent of not complaining, but Week 31 Kate has a baby’s head grinding into her pelvic nerves, a butt in her ribs, and legs trying to kick free out of her left side. Week 31 Kate has to drug herself with Tylenol PM just to get some sleep. Week 31 Kate’s ankles feel like they’re about to break into a million pieces. Week 31 Kate wakes up four times a night to hoist her cow-like body out of bed onto her glass ankles, shuffle to the bathroom, and pee out a bunch of knives. Week 31 Kate doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what Week 23 Kate thinks.

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I’m not that into food these days. My favorite thing to eat is still a tall glass of ice water, though lately I’ve been craving a cold beer. This morning Matt makes me his “green machine,” which is a smoothie with greek yogurt, spinach, banana, and OJ. Since I’ve just brushed my teeth, I leave it sitting on my desk as I shop for a new duvet cover online that will hide all the disgusting stains that our dogs leave on our bed. As I’m admiring an organic ikat number, a chat window pops up from the triplets. It reads:

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I’m reporting live from our front lawn. It’s 1:30 in the morning, and Matt and I have just been awakened by what he thought was a tree falling down and what I thought was the world’s largest ice maker just doing its job.

Turns out Matt was right. An enormous old sugar maple in front of our house dropped its largest limb on top of both our cars. This might be understandable if there were gale force winds ripping through the city, but no. There isn’t even a whisper of a breeze. That jerk tree just decided “Hey, I got nothing better to do–why don’t I drop dead on these two cars here and see if I can send that pregnant lady into labor.”

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Two weeks ago during my ultrasound, I asked the perinatologist when I would start looking crazy. She told me it would probably happen around week 28. Sure enough, I am ridiculous. No part of me has grown except my belly, which instead of curving elegantly around my offspring, juts out sharply as if it’s trying to run away from the rest of my body.

Matt now refers to me as his big lady, which is not my favorite pet name of all time, but I can’t argue that it’s not true. Matt’s big lady keeps forgetting her girth, accidentally smacking her belly on the corners of tables, dogs, and random people. Matt’s big lady is just a mess.

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