Today: When enough is… too much.

I left home precisely three times between Friday and Sunday evening.

I went for a walk with Clark (before you report me to the ASPCA or Sarah McLachlan, rest assured that Nick picked up my slack)
I made a trip to the pharmacy for cough drops (and crossword puzzles)
I met with our friendly neighborhood police officer to have our car seat inspected (Last Minute Larry strikes again)

I spent the rest of the weekend asleep, trying to be asleep, moaning and groaning, being stumped by crossword puzzles, watching the Kill Cliff East Coast Championships online (while my ticket to the event mocked me from the coffee table), wondering if you can wear more than one Breathe Right strip, and starring in my own one-woman version of Les Miserables. I don’t know if I should admit this (especially after promising you that you didn’t need to call animal welfare on me), but at one point I was so conked out that I drooled on my own dog. He didn’t seem to mind (and he loves that I am on the same napping schedule as him), but I was mortified.

I went from feeling great for the better part of 36 weeks to, seemingly suddenly, feeling… not so great. Our midwife encouraged me to slow down. I wanted to, but I also felt like I had a ton of work to get done. And I wanted to squeeze in one more workout before putting my CrossFit membership on hold. Also, I finally remembered what I forgot to get at the store, and so I figured I should go get it. And I had just one more big work event to pull off, so I worked late to ensure it went perfectly. Several nights in a row. And I wore heels to the event. Plus, I scheduled a couple more meetings. And I invented other things to add to my to do list.

While my ego tries to keep busy and be important, my body is saying, enough is enough. I could do without this rotten cold, and I wish I wasn’t such a boob for letting myself get this run down, but I’m finally seeing how badly I do need to slow down during these last few weeks (or days?).

Enough is enough… but it’s also too much. I can’t keep up. I can’t do what I’ve always done. And that’s okay (even if it’s been a bit of a challenge to accept). After all, it’s not just about me any more.

If you can learn this lesson without polishing off a box of Kleenexes, please do. From here on out, I’m steering clear of my ego and listening to my tired, not-so-little body.

A few more things to avoid when you’re pregnant (or just a human, in general):

Other people: (Sort of.) People say really weird things to pregnant women. I’ve heard some real doozies, from the security guard in Detroit who told me that she did voodoo on me, causing me to have twins (I was like, Maybe, use your voodoo for something more productive… like fixing Detroit?), to the man in my office building who asked, “Did you get fat, or are your pregnant?” or the woman at the supermarket who told me my doctor was wrong, and that I would have a baby before Christmas. And it’s not just strangers. People I know and love have said some bizarre things, too. It’s sort of impractical to avoid people altogether (especially when you consider my next suggestion), but it’s important to develop some sound coping mechanisms for the inevitable weirdness. Please don’t let the comments get to you. They are likely coming from a good place. I think.
Too much alone time: I have never been so far inside my own head as I have been these past nine months. I would likely be lost in there if I didn’t have a support system to field my questions, listen to my worries, offer suggestions, and laugh (in sort of a sad way) at me when I thought my belly button was connected to the baby’s belly button via the umbilical cord. (Don’t ask, don’t tell.)
The internet: I should be banned from WebMD. In the past week alone, I’ve diagnosed myself with six different incurable diseases. And I’ve cried about all six of them. When I stopped crying, I went on BuzzFeed (usually a reliable source of laughter, i.e. the opposite of crying), only to stumble on this terribly sad cartoon about how dogs grieve for their scattered children. I thought it would be something cute about grown-up dogs following their puppies on Instagram (shameless plug for @clarkthefrenchie), but it was actually devastating. Please don’t read it. Unless you want your ~~day~~ life ruined.
Comparison: Every person is different. Every pregnancy is different. You’re probably doing it perfectly. For you.

Oh. And avoid soft cheese. Which is just plain rude. I want my first meal in the hospital to be an entire wheel of brie. Maybe. Actually, I think I want a root beer float.

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