Some call it karma. I guess I had it coming. I had spent nearly twenty-three years professing how amazing my pregnancies were. Hardly any nausea, minimal weight gain, no swelling, quick labors, fast delivery, angel babies that slept through the night and caught on to nursing at the first latch… Yes, I lived the dream.
Just before my 42nd birthday, I found out we were expecting. This would be my fifth birth, but I had an additional four I earned through marriage. I was no stranger to being a mother of “Advanced Maternal Age.” My fourth child was born when I was forty, but like the others, she was easy peasy. I am now in the second trimester of this pregnancy, or as some like to call it, “The Honeymoon Phase.”
Listen honey, if this is the honeymoon, I want a divorce.
I am tired. So very tired. Maybe it’s my age, maybe it’s because I have a toddler with more energy than a hydrogen bomb, but my guess is, it’s the new baby growing inside me sucking the life from my soul. Literally.
One morning last week, I woke up with a debilitating back ache. If I turned the wrong way, lightning would strike my spine and shoot down my leg. My right butt cheek would be left on fire. Apparently, our pending bundle of joy has caused my uterus to expand in such a way that I now have a pinched nerve. Sciatica during pregnancy is very real and very painful. I’ve been walking around hunched over like an old lady in need of a walker. I wince every time I sit. I can’t pick up my toddler out of fear of paralysis.
My best friend bought me a heating pad and I sit on a pillow at work. Also, if you’re wondering what that smell is, it’s Tiger Balm. Holy Christ on a cracker, this balm is the bomb! I slather that shit on like it holds the Fountain of Youth.
As I waddled up to the check-out at Walgreen’s yesterday, the clerk looked down at my purchases (tennis balls and an electric massager) and gave me a solemn look.
“Pinched nerve?” she asked knowingly.
“My baby is trying to kill me,” I replied as I stuck my card in the chip reader. That card doesn’t even have a chip. I sighed, swiped it, and gimped away.
I had done my research. Google, Pinterest, and my faithful Facebook Mommy Group (shoutout to MoNBU) all offered the same advice. It was jumbled mix of foreign words I didn’t understand like, “exercise, stretches, yoga, workout, asana,” and something about remaining “active.”
…Basically, there was NOTHING I could do except lay around and complain to my husband in between naps.
He’s been a good sport about it. Just last night he cleaned the entire kitchen. He hasn’t said a word about my acne outbreaks, bloating, whining, uncontrollable hunger, daily mental breakdowns, or when I complain about the painful cramping that turns out to just be gas. Ooops. Sorry, baby.