meditations of a blueberry

Waiting. I'm not so good at waiting. My guess date has come and gone and I feel like I'm in the twilight zone. We are in a holding pattern now. Every morning I wake up in disbelief that I am still pregnant. As if I would have magically forgotten about giving birth in my sleep or something.  And so we wait. And wait. And wait some more. Every twinge, every random contraction makes me wonder if that's the start. One second I feel like I should be "doing all the things" to get labour moving, and the next I remember that I need to rest so that when labour does happen I will have the energy to bring this baby girl earthside. This isn't new to me. I had to wait with both A and L. It's just as hard to wait the third time around. I have spent almost this entire third trimester feeling mostly calm and ready to wait for the day that baby girl chooses as her birthday. Since my guess date has passed, however, my impatience has risen up to new levels. And yet,

Dear Pregnancy, We need to talk.  I'm breaking up with you. That's right. It's over. Please pack up your stuff and exit my life at your earliest convenience. Preferably today. It's not you, it's me. I swear. Okay, it's not me either. It's what you do to me. The heartburn. The heaviness. The emotions. The difficulty in not losing my temper over minuscule things. The back pain. The having to pee a million times in a day. The not being able to lay on my belly. The struggling to put on shoes or socks. The pain of a baby on top of my pubic bone. The feeling of my hips as they widen to allow for birth. The slow, slow, slow walking. The pain of carrying this heavy belly everywhere. The inability to walk up a set of stairs without having to rest. The anticipation of wondering when labour will walk through the door. The longing to meet this baby girl. You really, really aren't good for my mental health.  It's too much.