Pregnant Biz'otch

I have long since passed the second trimester glow and am now mired down in the heavy, plodding, ever widening butt morass known to most people as the third trimester of pregnancy. God plays cruel tricks on women. After gagging and sleeping like a narcoleptic through your first trimester, you suddenly feel energized with the added bonus of immense breasts that are no longer so sore to the touch that you sock your husband in the eye everytime he dares glance down below your neck. You begin to feel like this pregnancy thing might not be so bad after all. I mean how could something that gives you cleavage for the first time in your life be all bad, right? Hahahahahahaha

No, my friends, this is all a clever joke on the part of the cosmos to trick you into thinking that procreating is not that much of a pain in the ass. Because as soon as you pass that 28 week mark (and I mean literally...like within minutes) you suddenly notice how incredibly dumpy your butt has become, how much your thighs have expanded, how hard it has become to breathe, and how impossible it is to try and roll over in bed without the concerted effort of your husband to assist you (although he may get some enjoyment out of watching you flounder around like a turtle on its back). Then you begin to count the days, nay, weeks left until your due date with a sinking feeling in your excessively large abdomin as you realize you still have an enormous amount of time left and have already hit the point on the scale where your nurse has started to make little comments about how much weight you are gaining between appointments (wow, are you sure you're only seven months, ha ha ha). Slowly these realizations and ever increasing awareness of the mass of your lower body begins to take a toll on the pregnant one's already fragile psyche. And so begins the quick descent into pregnant bitchdom. I should, perhaps, feel some sympathy for my poor hubby who has no choice but to put up with me since he has no where else to live, but, instead, I wallow in my own misery and bitch incessently about retaining water (combat boots = not so good for preggo feet). (I feel less bad about this now that he has taken to shaking my prodigeous rear and singing about how my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard). How is it that we forget just how bad it gets towards the end? Nature is a cruel mistress to the pregnant!