Pregnancy

Since this will most likely be, ok definitely, almost probably (if I know it is, do I still have to admit it?) my last pregnancy I think its safe to finally admit that I am lousy at being pregnant. The worst. It's not that I don't try to love it, its just that...I don't. I do very much love the babies that come at the end of the marathon. But the marathon itself, I wish I could be cheering my husband along from the sidelines instead.

While my closet friends love every minute of it and bask in their pregnancy glow, I spend the first trimester attached the the toilet, thinking about the toilet, feeling like my head would never leave the toilet again. And despite the fact that I couldn't hold down my saltines, the scale will continue to climb into the unmentionable numbers.

My first pregnancy gifted me diabetes, my second sciatica, and third has me waking me with 2 am with the worst charlie horses ever. I have been walking briskly on the treadmill almost daily, well - sometimes just weekly (have I walked yet this month?) and yet, I get to the top of a flight of stairs and am gasping for breath.

At a mere 5 foot 2 inches means there is not much room for these guys to cohabitate and I feel like a human bowling ball.

Miserable.

So I look at pictures like this daily.

And am reminded how lucky I am. A miserable 9 months for a lifetime with them, hardly a sacrifice at all.

I would start all over again, painful fertility shots and all.

So remind me, won't you, when I start to complain to pull on my big girl pants (pun intended) lace up my bootstraps, and just finish the marathon. It's almost over and the prize at the end is the greatest.