Commitment to the Cause.

It's just after four a.m., and in about 16 hours we'll be celebrating another birthday. Here I sit, awake and alert, unwilling to put my head down on a pillow. I haven't experienced a full night's continuous sleep in about 34 weeks, and I don't expect to get another one for at least that much longer. But it occurred to me, in this waking hour, how many things we as women silently (or not so silently as of late) endure through the entirety of our pregnancies, all to show what my husband referred to once as "commitment to the cause".

1. Sleeplessness - and consequent haggard appearance. It's not easy to hold my laughter in when people tell me I'm "looking good!" at this stage in the game. I feel
like I'm ready to fall over at a moment's notice. I have come to the conclusion there's not an undereye concealer in this galaxy that will make me look anywhere near my 31 years. And the worst of it all is that this is merely a warm up round for the next few months.

2. Weight gain. Nope, no one's forcing me to eat the Taco Bell. And I realize that frozen yogurt is still sweet and delicious, even if it's not served 12 - 16 ounces at a time with Reeses Pieces adorning it. Today I will step on the scale for the last time for my final number, which my body has been telling me for weeks is probably about five pounds too many. Hips stacked on top of each other wake me up more times in the night than my bladder does. The arches of my feet cry and whine, begging me to stop trying to be a superhero and just sit down. And yet, I find myself ordering or preparing and consuming equal amounts of food to my husband. I should be so ashamed to have these confessions to the world. But take one look at me before tonight, and it's hard to deny.

3. Pain. Physical pain that is not caused by the aforementioned weight gain. Physical pain that starts in a location that was once renowned only for bringing happy feelings. The initial movements of sitting down, or standing up, or walking around causes incredible pain to shoot through my pelvic bones, out of my uterus, down my knees and into my feet. At my last doctor's appointment, the nurse practitioner who measured my belly had to reach so high into my ribs I thought she would tell me Eva's feet were resting in my throat, her head directly on my cervix, pushing it to complete effacement. The words, "you have a good sized baby in there" might as well have been never spoken, her eyes said it all. I explained that Geoff was about six-foot-four. She laughed and said, "you could've chosen a smaller sperm donor."

4. Heartburn. This has become a running joke in my life. Ask any of my friends or family what's not left my side for nine months. The family size container of extra strength Tums comes with me everywhere I go. It's in my purse, on my nightstand, in the kitchen. It's my frenemy. I hate chalky medication, but the evil became necessary almost as soon as I saw the plus sign on the stick. Everyone has their proverbial crosses to bear in this lifetime; in the grand scheme of things, acid reflux is incredibly low on the totem pole. But, is there a lesson to be learned from this kind of unmistakable discomfort? You might point out my eating habits, but rest assured, I pop Tums like candy every day regardless of what I eat. I can testify that water, yep, WATER, has been known to provoke heartburn. Running low on Tums is a death sentence. I have started thinking of a stylish holster for which pregnant women with a similar affliction can go about their day with no fear of being without their antacid. The old wive's tale is that heartburn is caused by hairy babies. My first born daughter is proof positive of this, at two years old the hair on her head is nearly to the middle of her still peach-fuzzy back. We'll see if the tale rings true tonight. I guess I could've chosen a less hairy sperm donor as well.

5. Emotional instability. Of all the things that have changed in the last few months, I would say this is the one that is impossible to keep to myself. I can say with confidence that the second time around I have at least been able to recognize when I'm about to have a breakdown, and as GI Joe says, "knowing is half the battle." I know that country music gets its bread and butter from pulling at heartstrings, so I've been resorting to hip hop and classic rock for a long period of time. I know that any movie based on a Nicholas Sparks novel is kryptonite. I know that people on the road are not gunning for me specifically, especially when they ignore the yield sign as I'm getting on the freeway each morning and nearly hit me in their effort to "merge" into the onramp. And as much as I love him, I think I know that my husband's not really just sitting there, waiting for the right feeling to come over him, to get up off the couch with something that I shouldn't even be doing in the first place. I think I know that. Yeah.

Commitment to the cause. :)