27 weeks 5 days.
The third trimester always seems to bring with it a special kind of emotional tidal wave. I spend the day counting down to the day I won’t be full to overflowing with a baby, swollen, fat, puffy, charlie horsed, and varicose veined. I then lay awake at night worrying about the c-section, the hospital stay, the transition, the sleeping arrangements, the outings, the patience this will all require. Am I mom enough?!
It all sends me into a tailspin and then I hear an old song that reminds me of who I once was; what I had time for, and I cry. Big, heaping, noisy,wrenching cries that come all the way up from my toes. The cleansing kind that scares anyone who witnesses it, but oh! If they only knew how good it felt to cry and shake and feel every hurt leave my body. Then, as a thunderstorm washes away the humidity, I am ready to love and work again. But, just as this Ontario summer seems to go, the humidity- thunder cycle repeats itself without much reprieve.
I took the car on Sunday. Alone. I had hoped to get a haircut, but she was closed so I went to the drug store instead. I must have spent over an hour there looking at pink lipstick, moisturizers, and skin care products. I won’t lie, it was glorious. I haven’t worn much more than mascara for the past few years because I thought it would bring my skin back to a natural radiance, but the reality was that I just looked tired. So if some BB cream (I didn’t know that was even a thing, but I have been waiting my entire makeup life for it) and hot pink lip gloss (I am not yet, brave enough for the opaque stuff yet!) make me feel a little more like my old self, then so be it.
Being inside my head is exhausting. I miss being creative, but can’t seem to find a solution to the lacking. I love baking, but I also love eating and if I ever intend to feel right in my skin again, I need to strike a balance there. I enjoyed making jewelry, but it is an expensive hobby and I never really made any money at it anyway. I would love to get more paid writing gigs and even do some fun/creative content marketing, but,unfortunately, the Clever Girls Collective is not accepting Canadian members and I don’t know where to start. I enjoy sewing, knitting, and crocheting, but when I am pulled in a different direction every 5 minutes, I can’t focus on counting stitches or any sort of pattern with ease, never mind the cats and Silas running off with the balls of yarn and the dog chewing my needles. Sewing is a no go what with all that tempting fabric to rumple, toss, and use as capes. I like painting and it is something I can do with Poppy with minimal frustration, but I have no idea of even the most basic techniques, and despite nearly every woman I am closely related to being a naturally talented artist/painter, I am not sure that I got that gene. I’d love to take a pottery course again, but know in my heart of hearts that I won’t go in the evenings when I am ready to collapse. Also, once I start nursing, I won’t be going far anyway. This isn’t forever. One day the kids will play and read and imagine hours away quietly. But, I won’t lie, there are days I feel like my brain might turn to mush and run out of my ears from the boredom I feel.
Today, there is a cool breeze and, though the humidity is at 100%, the sun remains hidden. My sprouts are ready for eating. The Postal Service is playing an old song. I find myself thinking of Autumn (sacrilege, I know, but summer and I are on the outs this year). The wild roses by the gate have released the most intoxicating, unadulterated rosey scent I have ever enjoyed. The poppies (the ones I almost gave up on) in the front garden have exploded into life and I can’t help, but smiles back at their happy, papery faces.
And finally, I am so loved. Despite all my issues and frustrations and anger, and mad fluttering, and pregnant hot messiness, I am so loved and it makes me weep more tears of gratitude.
Hold me steady beloved anchor of mine for the wild bird in my rib cage will settle her wings again soon.
go gently + be wonderful