It’s been a while since I’ve done a post filled with disconnected musings. Central themes expounded upon in a series of paragraphs…who wants to read that when you visit a blog? Besides, a lot of the things that go down in the third trimester are at complete odds with one another.

Why would I feel compelled to drink a gallon of water a day when I know it’s only going to mean I get up three or four times during the night to relieve myself. That’s a freaking conflict of interest! My overworked kidneys and physically compromised bladder would be grateful for a break, I’m sure of it. But no, instead I refill my specially ordered from the interwebs 64 oz jug twice a day. I sip on it all night while tossing and turning to find a comfortable position. I drink in great gasping gulps all day as long as I’m not required to speak. And I pay for it!

Another conflict? I eat and then I eat. Back in the day, even back in my second trimester, when I was hungry I went to the kitchen to prepare food. No longer. Now, I go to the kitchen and eat the first thing I see. Once I consume, then I can cook. The hunger is instant and insatiable. You can no longer reason with my appetite. If I want the luxury of cooking a real meal, I have to buy this body off with at least five pretzels. And I’ll drink a glass of whole milk while stirring whatever I’m working on. Then I’ll eat the entire meal. Sometimes I even remember to make enough for three, so my husband can have a small portion.

Not sure how much of it is baby and how much is just my girth, but my stomach can now hold entire plates at a height reasonable for shoveling food into my mouth. I haven’t found a good resting spot for my drink yet, but I’m betting in a few more weeks I’ll be able to wedge the cup between my breasts. And that’s not so conflicting actually. My body desires more food and is actually changing to accommodate getting that food into my face faster.

When I get out of the shower and need to dry off my toes, it’s like throwing a rope to shore only to find inept dock workers standing there. They see the rope, but don’t grab it. These dock workers are my toes. They wiggle at me wetly and say, “Ahoy there! I say, do you require assistance?” (In my mind, my toe dock workers are British.) So because my toes and I can’t work in tandem thanks to the baby between us, my toes must air dry.

In the beginning, all of the baby stuff we have so far accumulated was stashed in the back bedroom. Slowly, it’s begun to creep out and infiltrate the rest of the house. There a baby bottle next to the kitchen sink and soft, plastic molded baby silverware is actually in the silverware drawer. There’s an assortment of baby toiletries in the bathroom. And my baby shower is this weekend. After that, I think we’re going to have to admit that another person will be here soon.

I was making some kind of inappropriate joke to my husband. Then I said, “Oh, I can’t say that. I’m a mother.” He tried to give me an out by saying, “You’re not a mother yet.” To which I replied, “If you have vomited for another human being, you’re a mother.” I stand by that statement.

My pelvis is splitting in half. For the first time in my life, doctors seem completely unimpressed at something that would normally be a pretty major issue. If I were not pregnant and felt the bones of my pelvis pulling in opposite directions, I think they’d be a bit more concerned. But thanks to pregnancy, they completely write off the issue. And they offer absolutely no recourse. It’s just a part of becoming a mother, deal with it.

Cloth diapers. I think this is like a sport for crunchy moms. I only own about five cloth diapers total. But already, I see the collector mentality in me coming out. Also, you need a dictionary for cloth diapering websites and swapping forums. CD, AIO, AI2, AI3. DSQ, EC,FFS, FSOT, FUC, GN, GUC, IDSO, IHA, ISO, LN, NIP, OS, PF, PUL, RNG, and of course VGUC.

I’m starting to get to that point of “I’m sorta ready for this to be over” in this pregnancy. I feel huge. I waddle everywhere… incredibly slowly. My poor husband has to slow down if he wants to walk beside me. The trainer at the gym doesn’t even try to make me run anymore. And my belly won’t stay contained even in the special maternity shirts. And I’m only 32 weeks! In theory, I have at least five weeks left but more likely eight weeks to go. If I’m not a tiny bit late!