Happy Father's Day

Though about 3% of me wants to write a really sweet and gushy post about Father's Day and my amazing husband, and dad, I really can't seem to muster the strength. I have about 10-12 blogs I try to keep up with and most seem like they are so sweet and loving and I do sometimes wish I was more there. Alas, my feelings towards men unfortunately grow deeper in bitterness each day I am pregnant. Before you go feeling really sorry for my husband, don't worry, he will have a really great Father's Day weekend :) I made homemade banana bread bars with browned butter frosting for the weekend breakfasts, I will let him sleep in all weekend only to be welcomed with hugs kisses and coffee, but inside, I'll be raging.

This all started with my first pregnancy with our son Brooks, who is 18 months old. I'm sorry I just don't enjoy pregnancy. Whew I said it. I do feel incredibly lucky to be pregnant. I am aware it's a miracle not awarded to just anybody and I feel thankful God gave me a body that can carry a baby. But for 300 days of pregnancy, I am cranky. And I grow (scarily) crankier as it goes on, especially towards the male sex. I just don't understand why we couldn't go halfsies on this pregnant stuff. Like I carry one, you carry one, and keep alternating. Seems pretty logical to me.

Sometimes I will read an article or run into someone who brings up the most insane notion I've ever heard - that pregnancy is sexy. Um, cough out my coffee that I feel guilt for having while pregnant yet still continue to have. What!? There is nothing sexy about this entire time. Insane that I probably made a liver today? Yes, that's true. Incredible that God has allowed me to have a beautiful child and is giving me another? Yes. I mean I guess it's a Miracle, I can get on board with that. But sexy? I must be missing something. I can't go 10 minutes without wanting to itch the living daylights out of my boobs. Which are already heading towards their size D milk jug whoppers they will be when baby comes.

When I sit down y boobs rest on top of my growing stomach. I look more like an orangutan and less like the gorgeous goddess that I am as the days go by. I feel lucky that I produced enough milk to feed a small country with my son Brooks. But that blessing is coming back to haunt me in spades with number 2, as I've already started to leak breast milk. I'm 19 weeks pregnant. That means if I breastfeed the baby for a year, there will be liquid coming out of my boobs for at least a year and a half. Um I'm sorry, nobody wants that. I only want more wine going in, less breastmilk going out. And it will literally be like 2014 before that switch is fully made. And by then my husband will be making weird winks at me about having #3 and I will have forgotten how terrible pregnacy is and he will catch me in a confused red wine fog and I'll probably get knocked up again. Sweet fancy Moses.

Don't get me wrong, I love my husband and little boy so much, this is all worth it. It just makes me feel better to compain about it. A lot. Even if it is only to my Intel Celeron Emachine today.

If you want to see me really, really riled up, catch me in a moment with anyone asking me absurd pregnancy questions or making insane statements. A few I have heard:
--"Woah, you really got big there." If you are going to u say this, just go ahead and block any private parts you don't want me to hit.
--Stranger at Starbucks: "How many weeks are you?"
Me: "16 weeks."
Stranger: "Wow you're big!"
Me: "At least I'm pregnant and have an excuse" (No I didn't really say it I thought of it in my car and almost got back out to say it but it wouldn't have had the same effect.)
--Old woman I got stuck in line with at grocery and couldn't escape from: 20th invasive statement in 3 minutes...."Please tell me you are going to breastfeed?"
Me: "Yes you'll probably see me putting soup in my cart in aisle 8 with a baby attached to my boob in 5 months, I lost all connections with the fact that my boobs should be hidden with my first child and breastfeed in public like it's the newest Olympic sport I'm trying to get to catch on."
Cut to poor 89 woman looking shocked.

My husband has to deal with none of this and I just have a really hard time with that. He just gets to prance around knowing "his boys can swim" with a built in designated driver for 9 months, while I suffer through the gas, itchiness, and sheer horror of pregnancy only to face the nightmare that is childbirth and the aftermath. Oh the aftermath. I remember looking at my stomach in the hospital room after they had taken Brooks the day after I gave birth. It looked like a waterbed. Literally, exactly like a waterbed. With like 20 lemons in it. I'm certainly no perfect body but I love to run and enjoy eating healthy, and here I was staring at what can only be described as a disaster of a stomach. My boobs were amazing but it was hard to get excited about the insant boob job because they hurt so badly and they kind of lost some of their glimmer sitting on top of the waterbed. I had pushed so hard with Brooks (I'm sure I yelled "get that thing out of me" at least 10 times) that my eyes were completely blood shot. Literally, ALL the white around my eyes was pure red for 2 weeks. And Zac looked exactly the same. I'm not sure where the fairness factor comes in here people.

Another depressing time is when you have to admit what kind of fruit the baby is really resembling, like this week, I think I'm a kumquat or something, yet my stomach is definitely resembling more of a cantaloupe baby inside, and I have no explanation. Except maybe that I had about a third of the homemade banana bread bars with frosting right after they came out of the oven. Whoops. Happy Father's Day honey!