Pregnancy Update: Week 32
In lieu of a belly picture, becaue I JUST can't take a good one, here's my "mifwife" examining me. She does house calls. Which is great.
Well, here we are at 32 weeks, with that same cocksure swagger that I adopted last time around. “I”m totally the best preg around! The third trimester is cake!”
Don’t worry though, at least this time around I fully expect that the pregnancy gods will give me a good punch in the teeth sometime around week 34. At which point, if history repeats itself, I’ll give myself frostbite by being too vigorous in the application of ice packs on my sore, painful, pregnant back. (I’m not even joking. That totally happened. And then the massage therapist lady that I eventually saw was like, WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOURSELF????)
Anyway, buckle up. It’s pregnancy update time.
How Far Along?
Thirty Two weeks (tomorrow), and predictably I’m kinda doom-spiraling about all the fact that I MUST DO ALL THE THINGS but actually have done none of the things, and here we are in the single-digit countdown stage with eight weeks left to feather the nursery with (totally necessary) charming Scandi inspired sundries that can take up to 12 weeks to arrive thanks to the efficiency of the Indonesian postal service. You know.
How Big is Baby?
At last check-up, about a week ago, he was about 1500 grams, and measuring exactly in the 50th percentile for everything. Stella measured big, like huge, at the same stage. I wonder if it was because my doctor was using a Japanese standard? I dunno.
Lots. Alien-like undulations, that I’m sure are visible from space, are now a regular thing.
Total Weight Gain:
Shutup. Gigantic. Forty week weight gain achievement UNLOCKED! (At thirty-two weeks. I am an overachiever.)
THE BEST. I’m not even joking. Here is where I’m like exceptionally skilled as a preg. I wake up twice a night, and otherwise am just comatose.
The worst. I continue to believe that leggings are pants, since I won’t actually WEAR mat pants. And if you don’t mind me, I’ll just continue to be a sartorial hot mess for the next, ohhh, six months.
Ice cold water. Can’t get enough. Wild times up in here, let me tell you.
I am the weepy-ist. Also braxton-hicks make me worried about peeing my pants.
So now that I’ve shared THAT special little piece o’ info you, I’m linking up with my name twin, and fellow expat mama, who is ALSO expecting a boy. Go!