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.
During our ultrasound on Tuesday we discover that the impossible has happened. My beautiful, flawless cervix is shrinking and softening, signaling
IMPENDING DOOM labor. Hopefully I’ve still got a few weeks left in me, even though I feel like I’m about to burst into baby confetti at any moment.
For months I walked around thinking I was bigger than I was. These days, the opposite is true. I often forget that I’m legitimately huge. Luckily, a helpful man at Walmart set me straight today as I was waddling in to buy some ant traps and compare mulch prices (our life is just like Jay-Z and Beyonce’s). As I walked by, he looked at me and shouted “DAMN!” Actually, it sounded more like “DAAAYYYUUUMMM!!!!!”Before I could respond he started running down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Yup, still got it.
I’m going to admit something here. I am a terrible snob about Walmart. I think I’m too good for it. The few times I break down and go in there, I immediately feel like the most sophisticated and glamorous person on Earth, delicately maneuvering through a sea of zombies clutching Slim Jims, grape soda, and Wonder Bread. As I was making my way through home goods I nearly collided with one of them. “Vacuums,” she muttered under her breath. “Where them vacuums?” I let myself think an uncharitable thought, and then I caught a glimpse of myself in a full-length mirror. I looked exactly like Vacuum Zombie. Both of us were wearing shirts that were too small, with our fat bellies spilling over our waistbands. Both of us needed a comb. But at least Vaccuum Zombie was interested in cleaning her house, while I was shopping for bags of dirt. I guess I’m not the Target-grade classy bitch I thought I was.
People of Walmart, you have my deepest apologies. Now where them Slim Jims?