Thursday, May 26, 2016

Hormone Hurricane

I have eight and half weeks to go and my hormones have decided to increase their assault upon my wearied senses. One second I'm elated, the next I'm a wilted willow of welling weltshmertz. I find it more difficult to get back to sleep after the incessant toilet interruptions and am generally more tired. During a potty training exercise earlier this weekend (more on that later) for my first boy, which went a little awry to say the least, I convulsed in tears as I was defeated by the trail of poop throughout his room.

The SF hills, particularly pushing the stroller, are wearing me down. Public panting as I take my son out and traverse our sloping terrain has become routine. I suppose the romance of the second trimester has to give into the reality of the third, for at a certain point the baby has to come out and it helps if the mum is ready to push it out rather than in love with the kicks. One of my friends recently gave birth to her third and we were discussing the increased difficulty of each one... we may have a third, I haven't ruled it out per se, but I certainly know this uterus will close shop after that (for a number of reasons). I can't imagine how women dealt with 7 pregnancies in earlier times - if your uterus is lower in each, you would expect that their's reached the floor. My friend mentioned that she was sick of her daughter kicking her. I was on the other hand infatuated with my kids' kicks throughout both pregnancies at that time and wondered at her reaction. Now that I've reached the early 30s and my kid is intensively training for a trampolining championship, I can well understand. It's still an awesome feeling to feel him, knowing viscerally, physically, that there is a little body there, but the more active and forceful he is, the more I wish his manner were more sedentary or at the very least more gentle. I'm often on the phone with a client providing advice on a matter when in the middle of my counsel, my boy decides to jump on his trampoline and jolts me mid sentence into a stutter confounding my clients and forcing me to back-track. He well knows I'm writing about him now because his gymnastics routine just took it up a notch. Ouch.


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