First of all, I'm pretty sure today marks the one-year anniversary of my leap into the blogosphere, so, yay me! (Feel free to send gifts, etc.)
Secondly, I was just wondering if it is normal to feel wildly swinging emotions about the baby's impending arrival. For example, yesterday I had my thirty week check-up and was told that I am still not dilated and just have a big, squirmy baby who is making me very uncomfortable. (And also that I should be taking it easier, of course, and lying down more, blah blah blah. But the bigger and more uncomfortable I get and the closer the due date looms, the less I am able/inclined to take naps during the day.) Of course this made me happy- no bed rest, which is torturous to a person experiencing that biological drive to nest, and no three-day hospitalization to shoot up the baby's lungs with steroids or anything like we dealt with last time. This was excellent news.
And yet... I waddled to the door and thought, resentfully, "Holy crap! Ten more weeks of this. Ten weeks of more heartburn, more breaking out in a sweat every time I bend over, more not being able to see to shave my thighs. More tossing and turning at night with pillows wedged in every possible crevice, more contracting and more constantly having to pee and more puffiness. I can't wait for this to be over!"
Then the very same day, about an hour later, I was thinking of all the stuff I wanted to get done before the baby comes, and of how unwilling I am still to give up my alone time with Addy. Of how going out alone and getting a babysitter is going to require so much more effort now, and also of how I am dreading the days/weeks of postpartum weepiness and exhaustion. I thought, panic stricken, "Only ten more weeks! Two months! And that's assuming I go full-term. That is Not! Enough! Time!"