Guys, it’s third trimester time. It’s bladder kickin’, itchy belly, gigantic boob time. It’s about the time I break out my Quasimodo waddle and glare at skinny women. My boots begin silently screaming as I cram my feet in. Oh you’ll fit. I start sweating for no good reason and my calves cramp up. I forgot how to count and my face is getting weird looking.
I’m telling you all this so you can know I’m becoming a grumpy, selfish me monster with whom no one should have to interact. The reasons are stated above. Even I want to get away from myself, but I can’t. Because I’m me. I’m not even having a complicated pregnancy. I don’t even have complicated births. I experience the same quantifiable excruciating pain most of us feel. I’m just a grade A complainer with some seriously whacked out hormones. I’m like Ron Weasley on the hunt for horcruxes. I’ll be good once I take this locket off but until then where’s my dinner Hermione and stop looking at me like that Harry! Just like animals seek solitude in the wild when they are on the brink of death, so I seek isolation when I am about to prepare for birth. It’s better for everyone. Are you still not getting it? Here are some gifs.
(And I’m sorry for being me. As soon as birth siphons out all these extra hormones I’ll be back. I think.).