Ooops… You’re not supposed to talk about that either?!

I have been struggling with writing this post for some time now- it isn’t a pretty topic. No, I am not going to go into a diatribe about hemorrhoids. Readers, you probably know by now that I have no qualms talking about some of the ugliest pregnancy “miracles.” Though hemorrhoids suck (and, like an idiot, I just found out my stubborn refusal to ditch the stilettos during pregnancy is actually more to blame than That Girl), the biggest thing that has been cramping my style is prenatal depression. *Gasp* yes, it actually does exist, and *gasp of gasps* pregnancy depression could actually be more common than its more famous sister, postpartum depression. But, who is admitting they are depressed when they are preggers? Well, for a while not this Momma, and not many other people either… Unless Google was in cahoots with all the pregnant ladies of the world, and decided to try to hide this whole thing from me when I wanted to find out if pregnancy depression was just a mythic, close cousin of unicorns or if what I was going through was real.

I started writing this post in January, then got all chicken and let it sit in my drafts folder. I texted and talked about it with a select few friends way back in November, then pretended I hadn’t said anything the next time I saw them. I even asked my doctor about it in September, and felt ashamed when she said This is the most exciting time of my life and I really shouldn’t be feeling this way… but to let her know if it gets worse. Really, the whole thing waxed and waned throughout the first eight months of my pregnancy, nothing too big to tackle. If I hauled my pregnant-patootey to the gym 3/4 days a week and got a daily nap it didn’t even rear its fat, little frowning raindrop head.  In fact, I felt like a million bucks even with it being a cold-ass winter.

So, why even bring it up, right? Well, a couple of reasons:

It's my blog, and I do what I want

The second reason being that a bigger baby and closer due date is seriously impeding my motivation and ability to get in those workouts. Add to that a still(?!) growing, aching belly and raging heartburn that would indicate I am preparing to birth a baby dragon that are seriously getting in the way of sleep of *any* kind. Stir in raging hormones, that little voice that keeps reminding me that labor isn’t that far away, and the fact that I am desperately aware that my silhouette looks more like an over-the-road truck driver’s with each passing day, and I am having a hard time faulting the knocked-up for being those fat, sad little raindrops.

Woah, Debbie-downer! Go ahead, look for your Xanax… I’ll be here when you get back. But seriously… what’s a girl to do when she can’t even knock back those sweet, pink-tinted vodka drinks and chain smoke Camels with the girls to help raise her spirits? Eating cupcakes and trolling the mall is decidedly too expensive and fattening, but an oh so tempting option at this point.

I done gone and did it again, all talking about pregnancy stuff you aren’t supposed to talk about. But, its not like they can revoke my vajayjay and kick me out of the “I grow people” club for sharing the dirty little secrets of pregnancy, right?

Some things I shouldn’t be held accountable for

I personally can’t believe it, but I have made it to 30 weeks! It’s all a quick, downhill slide on my lovely, plump behind from here. While I only have ten more weeks left, I have to honestly say I am ready for this whole pregnant thing to be fin (makes pregnancy sound romantic, like a French film or something, doesn’t it?), and I am comfortable admitting that I draft Baby Monkey Meiners’ eviction papers on an almost daily basis.

I know she will vacate the premises on her own time, but I have to admit that in the last few days the number of people (starting with my prenatal yoga teacher) who have arched one eyebrow, flared one nostril and asked if I really think I am going to make it until May 3rd, has caused that bored feeling to start shifting to excitement. Now, don’t get me wrong, I definitely want her to hang on until that 37/38 week mark, but anytime after that she is more than welcome to grace us with her presence. In fact, don’t be surprised if starting in mid-April you see me roaming the streets of St. Louis with a cardboard sign saying I will work for foot massages while chewing on those Steak and Shake jalapenos like candy… just avert your eyes and carry on with your day.

Besides being bored with being pregnant, we have been doing a lot to get ready for That Girl. Here is what we have gathered up for her nursery so far:

And those dresser drawers are filling with onesies, bibs and baby Cardinals jerseys (dude, she is the progeny of two devoted Cardinals fans, and she is due about the same time that the Cards’ 2010 season starts, did you expect anything less?)

Since things are moving along at a smooth and steady clip I am becoming more confident that I haven’t completely, irreparably damaged my child… yet. I figure I have another 18 or so years to work on that so why spoil all the fun before she even gets here?

While baby damage would totally be my fault at this point, there are, however, a few things I have decided that I just should not be held responsible for. The shortlist? If my socks or shoes don’t match, if my legs look like a European/hippie chick’s, and if the reading on the scale would make Anna Nicole turn over in her grave, I firmly believe I should not be held accountable… being as I can no longer see any of them with ease. Furthermore, for the sake of pregnant women everywhere, I decree that if your stomach is so rotund you can’t even look straight down and tell what it says, you shouldn’t have to step on it at all. (Did you hear that baby doctor? That counts for your scale too… even if the reading is displayed all level with my face.)