|The first real "belly shot" of my pregnancy at 36 weeks. Caleb is admonishing me.|
I have the distinct displeasure of being 36 weeks pregnant at the pinnacle of the hottest time of the hottest season here in Western Kenya. I can't sit in a chair (with this extra 35 pounds weighing down on my ass) without a pool of sweat forming on my seat and my skirt clinging to my tush like saran wrap on a casserole dish.
But I can't complain.
That's what I say each time someone asks me, with sympathy in their voice, how I am handling these last stages of pregnancy: "I can't complain." (Little do they know I probably complain twice as much to my poor husband since I "can't complain" to them. He's a lucky guy, right?)
I can't complain because I've been pretty lucky. I'm one of those horrible women who gains pretty much all of their pregnancy weight in the belly. I really never threw up in my first tri-mester. I don't have high blood pressure or gestational diabetes. I've never had to be on bed rest. Hell, I did a 5 hour hike in my seventh month. Relative to most, it hasn't been that difficult.
Plus, I'm surrounded by women who have had miserable pregnancies. My sister threw up, every day. For NINE months. My sister-in-law did the same. I think she was on some kind of medication they give to chemo patients. So, I can't complain.
Other friends struggle to even conceive in the first place. They look at swollen bellies with jealousy and longing. So I can't complain.
And living where we do, where access to pre-natal care is not a given, I have to consider myself lucky. Should something go wrong, I'd be able to get the medical attention I need. So. again, I can't complain.
And yet, and yet...I sorely want to exercise my pregnancy prerogative and do just that - complain. Complain about my back and my exhaustion. About the heat and my swollen feet. About the fact that my husband can't pamper me the way I'd like because his work is too demanding. About my 3 year old who insists on being carried up the stairs. About my unborn baby who is doing bench presses on my diaphram and forcing my dinner half way back up my esophegas.
And I'd like some sympathy.
But I can't complain.
Can I complain about that?