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or The Mythical Fourth Trimester
I can’t imagine how my body will be able to handle even one more week of growth. That’s all I have left, I keep reminding myself. Come on, Maggie, you can do this! 39 down, 1 to go: should be easy enough, right? Well, it sure doesn’t feel easy at the moment. The OB/GYN told me yesterday that I’m actually measuring 41 weeks already. Very helpful, thanks so much.
Anyway, I’m not starting this journal to complain. Far from it. I’ve wanted to become a mother for so long now, I thought it would be a great gift to my future self to start recording my experience from just before the baby is born. Keeping a record of the busy early days of motherhood might be inconvenient at times, but down the road I think I’ll appreciate the fact that I’ve done it. So that’s what this is!
But yeah, if I’m honestly recording my experiences, there’s gonna be some negativity in here at this exact moment. I’m too damn big, is the problem in a nutshell. My stomach’s skin is now stretched to the point of shining. Sitting down my bump reaches at least halfway to my knees. Laying on my back I can’t even see my toes at this point. My belly knocks things over around the house and in public embarrassingly often. I can no longer seem to fit my body into any spaces that the public deems fit for acceptable human bodies. My immense growth feels alien to me and offensive to the staring world.
But I’m so close to having this baby! I’m trying to hold onto that as hard as I possibly can. The baby’s currently the size of a mini watermelon, they say, which is more than big enough as far as me and my netherregions are concerned. Now, just one more week of all this trouble. Then I’ll have a child of my own. Then I’ll have my body back. Then I can just be me again. I cannot wait to be done with this pregnancy.
Any day now! Literally: my due date is tomorrow. With every Braxton Hicks contraction I was crossing my fingers I might deliver early. But here I am, impatient but right on schedule. My hospital bag is fully packed, waiting for my water to break or contractions to start in earnest. My birthing playlist is queued up on my phone. I’ve done my various Lamaze stretches and exercises to death. I’m about as ready as a preggo can get…
I’ve grown since last week. Of course. Unavoidable, I know, but frustrating nonetheless. I wonder how far out the bump shoots from my usual, relatively flat stomach. 18 inches would be my conservative estimate. Shape-wise, since the baby’s dropped into birth position, my belly stretches roundly from just under my breasts (which now rest just on top of the belly’s upper reaches) to hanging heavily around mid-crotch. It’s about the shape of a tear drop; a bit less elegantly so since dropping. My belly button is a rigid outie, sticking out maybe twice as far as a freezing cold third nipple would. I’m not doing a plaster cast of myself or anything like that, but maybe writing down an approximation of the contortions my body’s currently undergoing will be something I will want to have done looking back on this experience. You’re welcome, Future Me!
My belly is stretched tight enough now that all the baby’s movements inside me are pretty seriously painful. There’s no place for its arms and legs to go besides directly into my internal organs or out against my already-inflated-to-capacity skin. Mark has been giving me lots of belly massages to calm the baby and prevent it from moving around too much. It’s been working surprisingly well. He focuses his touch on wherever the baby has most recently caused me pain, gently pushing into my bump and rubbing in a slow but firm circular motion. It seems to slow the baby down considerably, as well as soothing my bloated and bothered belly.
Despite my many discomforts and annoyances, I’m trying my damnedest to maintain the proper reverence for the magic that’s going on inside me. I’m making a life in here, for God’s sake. It is absolutely incredible. And the amazing process is as good as done. I could go into labor any minute, be a full-fledged mother in a few hours. Childbirth is going to be terribly difficult, obviously, but probably just about the most rewarding thing I’ll ever go through. Trying to keep my excitement up as high as my displeasure and anxiety in this home stretch. I think I can make it another day or two…
This isn’t funny. I am officially overdue with no end currently in sight. 41 weeks is longer than I signed up for. It happens to some pregnant people, I know; but I’m still pretty pissed that it’s happening to me.
Unfortunately, with my allergy to a compound used in most medications, I’m ineligible for chemically-induced labor. Also unfortunately, I’m deathly afraid of surgery and will definitely not be consenting to a C-section. Thus, this is going to have to happen the old-fashioned way. And my body just isn’t yet giving the signal to start the final stages of this pregnancy. Dammit, I wish I could just will it to happen. No such luck though. Trying to be patient, trying to be patient, trying to be patient…
One activity that can Maltepe Escort supposedly help induce labor is sex. I feel uncomfortable writing about this here: I’ve never written down anything about my sex life before, nor really shared it with anyone but Mark. But this isn’t for anyone else, is it? It’s just for me to look back on in the future, so I should try to be more honest and less shy here, record things as they are. Anyway, here goes: prior to a few days ago, we hadn’t had straight-up penis-in-vagina intercourse in over a month. Blame it on the belly. It’s not that I haven’t had a libido: the pregnancy hormones do indeed ratchet that up for a girl. We’d fooled around plenty with hands and mouths. Finding a comfortable position for the deed itself, though, was quite the challenge. Several times we’d given up after some awkward and frustrating attempts at positioning ourselves properly.
Now, though, I specifically need “it” for a very good reason. We settled on Mark taking me from behind, which isn’t something we’d tried while I’ve been pregnant (and, frankly, not something we’ve done a whole lot in general). “Doggystyle,” as they bluntly say. I definitely prefer face-to-face sex, but we just couldn’t work that out logistically. On my hands and knees, the force of gravity pulling down my giant hanging gut turned painful within just two or three minutes. Luckily, the entire deed only took us five or six minutes total. It felt really great for both of us, definitely releasing some beneficial endorphins on my end. Unfortunately, no contractions or other signs of labor resulted. We’ll keep trying, I think 😉
Can a pregnant belly drop twice? Mine seems to have. I guess that’s gravity for ya! It came to its flabby conclusion mid-groin up until a few days ago. Now it goes all the way down to just about level with the lowest point of my groin, basically flush with the location of my actual genitals. Currently, accessing my private area is…a challenge, to put it mildly. I hope the OB/GYN can excuse (more than) a bit of hair down there. They must be used to that, right?
I’ve been trying to move around as much as possible, another tactic for inducing labor. Not loving being out in public and weathering innumerable stares, I’m mostly moving just around the house and sometimes the backyard. Even so, I’m ungainly as all hell. I thought knocking things over and bumping into everything had gotten out of hand when I was around 39 weeks. Now, well into overdue territory, things have gotten ridiculous. Items on nightstand? Bathroom sink? Kitchen table? All swept to the floor by the bump. Getting through doors? Into the car? Within even the slightest tightness of a hallway? I will bump right into it, baby-first. My center of gravity is shifting far more quickly than I can keep up with it, just as I grow far more quickly than I can possibly account for my size as I move around. It’s always embarrassing and often painful.
I really thought by this moment in time I’d be keeping a record of early motherhood, 2 or 3 weeks in by now. I guess this is becoming a journal about being pregnant for way too long. It’s an interesting couple of weeks, I’ll give it that. Definitely something I’ll be glad I kept a document to remember. I mean, you get 40 weeks of pregnancy, but only a select few get a several weeks of being mega-overdue-pregnant, right?
I am HOT. Not sexy-hot (though Mark does his best to keep my spirits up on that point), but sweaty-hot. Constantly, so grossly sweaty. So I’ve been hanging around nude a lot. This comes as something of a surprise even to me, as I’ve been so very done with my pregnant body for a few months at this point. Rather suddenly, though, I’m finding the extreme changes I’ve undergone kinda fascinating. I mean, how many people get to experience being THIS PREGNANT?! While still not leaving the house very much, I’ve become a lot more comfortable physically around myself and Mark, at least. Even dripping sweat constantly as I may be.
To be honest, I am sexy-hot, too. I believe Mark and I believe my own eyes. I’ve been spending a half-embarrassing/half-liberating amount of my nude time in front of a full-length mirror. Who knew that a belly could stretch so very far in every direction, and still somehow with so few stretch marks to speak of? That it could protrude so far and hang so low while still managing to safely contain a fetus? That breasts could get this massive and steadily drip this much milk? That nipples could get this dark and ever-erect? That an untended bush could so quickly get this unkempt? That the majority of my body could remain so relatively lean while my bump approaches the size a beachball? These extreme changes aren’t ones I’d anticipated witnessing, but they’re pretty damn magical all the same. I’m quite taken with myself at the moment.
But labor really should’ve started by now, and it’s rather disconcerting that it simply hasn’t. Being this overdue, I’m now on weekly OB/GYN visits. He insists everything’s fine, that the baby and I are healthy and there’s no reason at this point to do something dangerous (chemical Anadolu Yakası Escort induction) or terrifying to me (C-section). He also let me know that I’m measuring beyond full-term for twins at this point, fast approaching full-term for triplets. Confident as I may be becoming in my own gestational skin, I still asked that he stop providing me with such little tidbits of information. I know I’m very big; that’s enough for the moment.
I started as a Medium in maternity wear, a size larger than what I wore in pre-pregnancy, non-maternity clothing. I figured I was playing it safe, getting clothes that would last me throughout my pregnancy. Naturally, there was no predicting week 44. My maternity Mediums were still the best-fitting articles of clothing I had, so, not being able to go out in public nude as I’d been enjoying in private, they were what I covered most of myself in to head to Motherhood. I was showing a seriously substantial amount of underbelly cleavage, I must admit. My top would only reach down to my navel, then would start hiking up immediately unless I constantly pulled it back down.
My whole bump was pretty much bared to the public, in other words. A month ago, this would have been abjectly humiliating. Now, I was…kinda into it? I surprised myself, even, but my newfound confidence in my gigantic body seems to have progressed to full-blown exhibitionism. The stares were constant, coming from every conceivable direction. Even inside the store with half a dozen other heavily pregnant women, I was very clearly the focal point of everyone’s attention. No one else was anywhere near my size…or showing anywhere near as much skin…or waddling anywhere near as dramatically…
Motherhood only had clothing going up to 1XL; after finding these didn’t nearly do the job of covering the massive bump, I ordered some 2XL and 3XL items later to be overnighted from Motherhood’s site. 3XL is my current size, it turns out. And I don’t mind at all! It sounds positively mortifying, but I love my size and it’s just a number and a few letters on a tag. My ultra-curvy, sexy confidence speaks volumes compared to these 3 measly digits.
I don’t even mind that I’ve finally started developing some bright red stretch marks on the lowest third of my belly. Seriously, it’s fine. Loving this pregnancy right now. Guess I made it over a difficult hump of self-doubt and impatience. I could hang out and get more and more pregnant for a while longer yet, I think. Discomfort and ungainliness are a perfectly acceptable price of admission to have to pay: almost no one gets the opportunity to be this huge, and I will be savoring it.
The doctor really wants me to keep trying to induce labor, though at this point I’m torn between wanting to finally hold my baby and wanting to keep this crazy pregnancy going. I took the medical advice to heart in the end: the guy is an expert, after all. His recommendation (and one I don’t mind a bit) is to have more penetrative sex.
With my recent increased body confidence, Mark and I had already been going at it more than we had during the whole pregnancy. A prescription for penetration, though, changed things up a bit. We started up again with doggystyle, my bump now hanging all the way down onto the bed when I got on my hands and knees. But after a few sessions, I found I really missed seeing Mark’s face as we made love. It would be worth the effort to figure out how to have sex facing each other, I assured him.
And I was right. Very right. This started three days ago now, and I’ve lost count of how many rounds we’ve gone since. We first tried to figure out some version of missionary and gave up after 10 flailing minutes. I quickly had him on his back after this brief failure. It was a struggle to haul my pregnant ass up high enough to get on for the ride, but it was very well worth it. My belly rested heavily on his chest, stretching all the way up to his nipples. He didn’t really have a choice but to grip it as we bounced. My extra weight pretty much forced me to ride him harder than I ever have before. It was pretty wild, honestly. I felt freer than I think I ever have during sex, pregnancy or not. To tell the truth, I feel freer writing about it here than I probably ever have discussing it anywhere before. We’ve got a gestational sexual awakening going on over here! I’m actually glad my pregnancy has been so dramatically extended so I could experience such a wonderful period of sensuality. It’s really been great.
After yesterday’s third or fourth session, I was having trouble cooling down. I’m (proudly!) carrying close to 75 extra pounds, after all. I got out a pre-pregnancy bikini, and was shocked to find I could fit into it. My breasts haven’t grown anywhere near as dramatically as my belly; still, I just barely managed to clasp the top and contain the girls. The bottoms slid on easily enough; they just rode far lower than they had before (completely under the bump, obviously). From the front, my hanging belly completely obscured the bikini’s bottoms, making it look like I was wearing nothing at all down İstanbul Escort there. I loved it.
Thusly attired, I hit the beach with Mark. If any doubt remained over whether I’d become an exhibitionist in ultra-late-term pregnancy, it dissolved about two minutes after we made the parking lot. Every eye was on me. Like, literally. Every. Eye. I was a magnet. Was I encountering pregnant fetishist after fetishist after fetishist? Incredibly unlikely. Into pregnancy before me or not, I was a complete head-turner in my current state. I would love to see the porn searches on some of these folks’ computers after getting a load of me. I feel I may have inspired something in a more than a few of them 😉
I’m so tired. SO. DAMNED. TIRED. It’s worse now than in the 1st and 3rd trimesters combined. Not at all like that weirdly energetic 2nd trimester, unfortunately. I’ve taken to sleeping downstairs in our guest room. That way I don’t have to summit the stairs at night. Or several times during the day. Between overnight and my now-standard two day naps, I slept over 15 hours yesterday; it still didn’t feel like enough.
I haven’t been going out much lately at all. Just hanging out around the house, falling asleep at the drop of a hat, rarely wearing any clothing at all. To move between rooms even just on our first floor, I’ve taken to using a walker/plastic seat combo on which I can rest my precipitously protruding belly. It just shoots so far out in front of me, it doesn’t feel safe to walk around with it dragging me down and knocking into absolutely everything. Better to let it rest on something with wheels, taking the weight off my back and allowing me to move more than a foot without completely losing my shallow pregnancy-breath.
I hope I get over this hurdle of tiredness soon. It’s exhausting to stay so exhausted.
I’m still very tired, but maybe with just a bit more energy peppered in than I had last week. Maybe I’m just getting used to this crazy level of exhaustion. Either way, I think things are improving slightly. Still absurdly pregnant, too, by the way. No improvements to speak of there.
I had to go to both my PCP and OB/GYN this week; Mark got me a wheelchair to ease my anxiety about so much out-of-the-house movement, at which I’ve fallen severely out of practice. Sitting in the wheelchair, my belly shoots out to just past my knees. It’s pretty nuts how large I am, and the public is taking serious notice. The bump isn’t just shooting out several feet in front of me, but also seeming to take up every conceivable cubic inch of space on, around, to the side of, and generally beyond my torso. Both doctors told me I’m the biggest pregnant person they’ve ever seen. Which, yeah, I can see that, but…thanks so much, everyone. Love hearing about how huge I am from people I hardly know. Not going to miss that. I will miss being this huge, though. I just want that coming from my mouth, maybe from Mark’s at certain special times.
Oh, and stretch mark update: they’re everywhere. Especially dense around my navel, but covering pretty close to every bit of the belly at this point. Angry-looking bright red, wide and long. I’m also all sorts of veiny where you can still see non-red skin, and stretched-till-shining where you can’t see the thick blue veins. It’s a beautiful mess of a scene on my abdomen. I wonder how much of it will go away with the end of the pregnancy, and how much will remain as fun reminders of this time of my life. Only time will tell.
I’m down to giant, shapeless mumus for clothing that can manage to cover my whole body at this point. That’s only when I need clothing, of course, which isn’t all that frequently. I’m still REALLY digging my naked form; I’m back to spending a decent amount of my time in front of the full-length mirror. I guess that’s a sign that I’ve regained some of my energy, what with the staying upright that’s required to see myself in the mirror’s current vertical orientation. The copious masturbation is probably an even better sign of my energy’s return. I can hardly reach down there, so the amount of effort that has to be expended to bring myself to climax is pretty considerable. And I’ve been doing it many times each day nonetheless.
I did have to spend some extended clothed time in a mumu for a family event this week: our niece Liza’s 8th birthday party. Not having seen most of my family since I was about 32 weeks along, my new intensely more swollen appearance drew some serious attention. I felt a little bad for my niece on a day that should’ve been all hers, honestly: I really stole the spotlight.
Unsolicited belly touching has been a slight issue throughout my pregnancy (not at all unique to me), and that act of over-familiarity can be more common with people you know as well as your family. Once you’re 2 months more pregnant than anyone has ever seen before, I suppose it’s understandable that the handsiness becomes even more pronounced. It did generally make me feel fairly uncomfortable despite my newfound exhibitionism. I guess that doesn’t extend to having actual hands placed on me; just eyes. Which were certainly on me as well, much to my pleasure. Every gasp at my hugeness, though, was accompanied not by a question of whether they could “feel the baby” or whatever they might come up with, but with a permission-free two-handed grope of my absurdly swollen midsection.
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