My little TJ, welcome to full-term.
Actually, not quite: he/she still has a week of being officially premature. I’ll be medically ready to pop from just before 37 weeks. But still.
Things have changed, the past week or so. I’m large, and I feel it (for the first time, the word ‘gravid’ feels appropriate – isn’t it such a deliciously heavy, weary-sounding word for ‘pregnant’?). I believe the technical term for my laboured stagger from desk to printer and back again is galumphing. My skin hurts. I take off all my clothes in order to get to sleep. My back vertebrae click when I breathe in too deeply. And oh my goodness, I hate to keep going on about it, but I’ve never seen anything like the size of my feet. I suppose I can still SEE my feet, which means we still have some way to go.
I’m ready to stop now, I think. I want a baby, not a belly. I want to sleep on my front and do some proper exercise and I never, ever want to eat another raisin in my life.
Luckily this was my penultimate day at work, at least for the next year or so. So next week it’ll be a strict regime of sleep and housework and pottering around in TJ’s room for however long it takes before he/she arrives. I am beginning to love that little room. I feel like if I spend enough time in there, putting tiny vests in tiny drawers and setting things in order, I can wish him into existence.
I mean, you don’t get pretty pictures like this in your average uterus, do you?