Pimples the size of frozen peas, boob sweat, heartburn so gnarly you actually wonder if your chest is going to catch alight… Welcome to the third trimester of pregnancy.
I’m 35 weeks into growing baby numero trois and I’m going to be blunter than Sia’s fringe; I am done.
I’m sure this probably happened last pregnancy but clearly those clever hormones that work to make you forget the unpleasant stuff (birth, bleeding nips, the first post labour poo) and procreate again have erased it from my memory.
The final countdown
The last week has seen everything ramp up a notch. It’s like my body held a general third trimester of pregnancy assembly and pulled together a list of all the things that could still be thrown at my sore, stretched body. “Thought you were at the end of the road? GUESS AGAIN!”
My face is one big pimple. It’s hard to actually see where the inflammation ends and normal skin begins. I could take a seat in any high school class right now and field comments like “Mate, your face is hectic AF.” Yes, imaginary teenage friend, I know it is. It’s probably because I seriously cannot stop eating sugar. I growl if my husband tries to innocently take a bite of say, the ice cream I’m chomping into, yet despite the copious amounts I’m eating, it all tastes pretty blah. Last Friday night I was incapable of choosing a takeaway option as it ALL TASTES THE SAME.
The Cersei Lannister of pregnancy symptoms
Can we talk about heartburn for a minute? There are so many words I could use to describe it but 98 per cent would be censored. Let’s just say it’s the ‘Cersei Lannister‘ of pregnancy symptoms; heartless, sociopathic with the ability to chronically burn. I actually have a panic attack at the thought of running out of my beloved Zantac, the only thing which holds the tide of burning hot bile at bay.
I’m up at least 15kgs. My midwife, bless her, hasn’t weighed me yet this pregnancy. That glorious day comes at 37 weeks. They’ll probably need one of those harnesses they use to lower race horses and large sea creatures onto the scales. The eight minute walk to school feels like attempting the City To Surf, in the mud, on crutches.
I grunt angrily and violently when I need to move and have given up picking anything up off the ground. On Sunday, my husband had to buckle my Saltwater Sandals. Morning sickness randomly made an unwelcome return on Monday and I had to swallow a vomit while chatting to another mum in the playground lest I expelled spew onto her Converse. It could be said that I am indeed #pregnantAF – thank you, third trimester of pregnancy.
Welcome to the last hurrah
I am trying to grasp hold of the teeny tiny bit of silver lining just peeking through. Namely the fact that these are my final weeks as a mother of two. My last days spent with my three-year-old as ‘the baby’. Our last hurrah as a family of four.
It’s also the last time I’ll whinge and moan about being pregnant and the last time I’ll be completely awestruck by my bodies’ ability to grow a baby. There is so much good to take with the bad, but yep, I’m ready to be done. Come 38 weeks, I’m issuing an eviction notice. Hit me with your most aggressive stretch and sweep and hammer those acupuncture points because this baby will be well and truly cooked and this mama ready to sleep on her tummy without 27 pillows and walk more than 15 metres without leaking various bodily fluids.
Is it worth it? Yes. A hundred times over. But damn, I’ll be glad to be done.
If you’re in that stage too, check out our article on what you need to know before entering the birth suite.
