I know, I know. This is just a couple of Instagram photos. I'm obviously not even trying at this point. They were even taken in my workplace bathroom (hence the Dunkin Donuts latte and overall expression of absolute exhaustion in one of them).
Here's the thing; at week 36, at least for me, there really isn't "style" anymore. I'm wearing my wedding ring on a chain around my neck because I can no longer take it on and off without some effort during the day. I'm wearing flip-flops with growing-out chipped nail polish because A. my feet look like fascinating balloon animals by early afternoon and B. have you ever painted your own toenails while holding a watermelon over where your stomach muscles used to be? Try it sometime. It's like yoga, in that everything aches and I'd kill for a good beer afterwards.
Actually, at this point, I'd kill for terrible light beer. I miss beer.
I'm just wearing a rotating series of striped things, because they're basically the only things I own that don't start flashin' belly shockingly quickly. Trust me; ain't nobody in this game to see my stomach. I know that; you know that. We can all rest easy knowing we understand each other, here.
This is the homestretch, people, and nobody looks pretty at the end of the race, right?
Well, no one except horrible terrible no-good very-bad people who we will not discuss, because I like to pretend "people who look good while heavily pregnant" don't exist. It's a nice fantasy world I live in where I just pretend celebrities constantly preaching about the "right way" to do pregnancy aren't a thing. You should try it! The world already seems like a better place.
I am officially on what they call "modified bedrest" (or... maybe they don't call it that. I don't know.) Basically, I'm not being taken out of work yet but I'm supposed to not do anything when I'm not at work. You know, keep my feet up above my heart and just chill out.
I tried to explain to my doctor that I don't really have time to relax right now, thank you but she and apparently everyone else I know seem to think it's more important that my blood pressure isn't ridiculously high due to my constant pointless worrying and flailing in circles than it is that I get stuff done. I only have like three and a half weeks left, people! There's a lot of stuff to cram into that timeline!
Last night, a friend of mine with four kids of varying ages, from adulthood to elementary school, asked me a pertinent question. She said, "What do you need to bring this baby home?"
"Well, we haven't finished the nursery yet and I haven't washed the-"
"No. What does this baby need to have when you come home from the hospital?"
"... a carseat. We have the carseat, but it's not installed and they don't let you leave until it is."
"Okay, you can do that easy. That can be done while you're in the hospital. What else?"
"A place for her to sleep?"
"Okay. That's two things. What else?"
In the end, I suppose she's right. Babies didn't come home to blissfully finished decorated nurseries a century ago and enough of them lived to be the parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents of the greatest population explosion in human history somehow.
Cardigan from Target, striped tank top from Old Navy Maternity, Gap Maternity jeans, sandals from God knows where and I'm tired now.