Next to me, my husband is sleeping peacefully, oblivious to all.
In my eighth month, I am worn out and so tired of not having the full use of my body. I'm a very small woman, carrying an unproportionally huge stomach. My knees are straining under the extra weight. Constant heartburn is eating away at my throat. I'm out of breath. I'm irritable and I spread my irritation to my family members. When things fall on the floor, which happens every 2.5 minutes in our household, I curse. I've given up trying to pick anything up, and if I don't go around nagging my husband and kids to pick up stuff off the floor, it just lies there - everywhere!
We have to move either a week before or a week after my due date. Neither option appeals to me. Packing seems like a herculean task right now, and the thought of coming home from the hospital to an apartment full of unpacked boxes depresses me. It goes against my nesting instincts.
And then I have the birth to look forward to. I hate pain. I dread pain. I still vividly recall the pain of my last birth, only 18 month ago. Yes, I know there are drugs, and believe me, I want them all! No natural birth for me. No thank you! The problem is, the sadist doctors and the sadist nurses in the overcrowded Brooklyn hospital where I have to deliver, don't seem to be overly concerned for my comfort and take their sweet time calling in the Anesthesiologist. Last time I got an epidural 20 minutes before my baby made it out into the world.
Perhaps I shouldn't be complaining. I know there are women who dream of having babies and would trade places with me in a heart beat. I think of the miscarriages I've had and I know that I'm blessed to be awaiting my fourth child. In the end, all the suffering is worth it.
Still, being a baby-house is not easy.