Read It and Sweep

I had an impromptu house guest Tuesday night and, at the last minute, I decided to sweep my not-so-clean house.

Mark it down, folks. 25 weeks is apparently when housework becomes difficult.

Okay, so I can’t REALLY say that, because I don’t believe I’ve swept since I’ve been pregnant. Yes, I know you’re doing the math. To be fair, there was a move in there in which we paid someone to do a deep-clean, and my husband sweeps at random intervals, but still. I know. When there is a child involved, we’re going to have to keep things cleaner.

It was definitely a shock to experience what a little sweeping wrought, though. My lower back is still unhappy with me. I was out of breath, sweaty, and stumbling all over the place.

what-is-happening (1)

I’m making a human is what’s happening, and despite the eye rolls I get from my husband, that means I’m living for two. This means I maybe won’t walk home from the pet store with a 40 lb bag of litter like I did when I was in my first trimester. And maybe when I go upstairs to stretch after my run, I take a few steps back from the top of the stairs when I find myself bending over and staring into the abyss.

And yes, it also means that every weird thing I experience gets a Google. Pre-term labor is now a thing I have to worry about, apparently. It is the DEVIL. Everything that I’m feeling (and have been feeling) is now a warning side. Cramp? Pressure? Bloating? BACK PAIN? That fetus is coming OUT, people.

Despite my constant monitoring, I have not yet resorted to calling the midwives. Not because I’m too cool, but because my health insurance sucks, I’m lazy, and I hate dealing with people. See also: my pregnancy has been more breezy than it has any right to be.

Right now, I have a floater in my eye. And while Google tells me that things in your eyes could be signs of pre-eclampsia, I’m living with it for now. I have an appointment in a week and a half – it can wait until then. If I see blood, I will definitely panic, but until then, I’m letting it float.

When you’re pregs, trying to walk the line between careful and crazy is like walking a tightrope tied to the top of the Empire State Building with an extra person strapped to your back. We’re caught between not wanting to be stupid (see: carrying 40 lbs 10 blocks) and not getting hysterical.  I don’t want to be treated like a creepy china doll, but I wouldn’t mind an extra pillow.

On one side of my line is the independent feminist who still runs (jogs, really) and can handle herself, thank her very much. Napping and grousing on the other side is the person who has issues with sweeping and bending over. It doesn’t make any sense, but hey, neither does pregnancy.

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