I know why God waited until the 6th day to create man and rested on the seventh. Because creating life is absolutely exhausting.

I am now six 1/2 months pregnant with our fourth child. We are entering the home stretch of this pregnancy, and frankly, I'm more than ready for this to end.

I am not one of those women who has ever uttered the lie, "I love being pregnant." I love my children, but I wish there was more to that Stork story than just theory and babies would be dropped at the front door. In fact, if I could deny thousands of years of history and biology, I would swear that my body wasn't made to go through this.

Each of my pregnancies is remarkably different yet have an undeniable sameness. I get sick for 3 months, I swell and contract for the next six, and then some element of weirdness comes into play during the final month and they are born early despite my scheduled surgery date in which I have painstakingly arranged every other life detail around.

This one has followed suit so far, but with a little different nuance being the fourth.

Early on, there were some days when I'd wake up and not remember I was pregnant for a few minutes. Mornings are crazy here with three other kids and I'm not at my swiftest this time of day, so before that first cup of coffee hit my bloodstream I could delude myself into thinking I could paint my toenails or go on a roller coaster. I'd pretend that I'd find something decent to wear in my closet or that I wasn't hungry.

Now there is physically no such denial. Strangers no longer hesitate before asking their nosy questions. The orb that rests on my hips now draws its own orbit. I literally walk into a room and lamps and candlesticks start encircling my body. I won't be the least bit surprised if the child is born speaking Russian, as Sputnik is on the other end of the umbilical cord.

Lying is a side effect of this pregnancy. I tell obvious ones like, "I feel fine!" or "I couldn't eat another bite." In contrast, I also don't feel the need to be lied to. I have no use for false compliments during this time; I know I look exactly how I feel. I'm not "glowing." It's high blood pressure.

Stamina is an issue now. I really want to go to bed by 9:00….A.M. I sleep soundly and deeply and my dreams are clouded by hormone-colored skies that either bring me a night of euphoric entertainment or extreme terror--never making any logical sense but always featuring Bill Purcells for some unexplained reason.

These same estrogen clouds overcast my days as well. I cry. A lot. For no reason. A lot. I welled up in the grocery store yesterday because they gave me paper instead of plastic. And logically knowing the chemical imbalance behind it does nothing to prevent it from coming on. It feels much the same as if you were fully aware you were going insane, but still knitted booties for the 86th cat you just rescued nonetheless. When someone points out that I may be hyper-sensitive, it induces me into a tear-induced coma. This may lead some to worry about future post-partum depression--I don't know if it is actually possible to form that particular word combination--but I will not feel depressed to not be pregnant after 40 grueling weeks. Trust me; I will be in post-partum elation when I don't have to choke down a prenatal vitamin the size of a grapefruit everyday.

My husband treads lightly around me these days--at least one of us is capable of such an action--ignoring the practical logistics of how to get me the fresh tomato and a glass of cold whole milk that I crave this very instant while we cruise on I-4. He never says anything retarded like, "We're pregnant." I think he can sense that although I can't lift a laundry basket I have the superhuman strength to rip a man's heart out of his chest in one fluid motion with my bare hand while it is still beating. I'm kidding, of course. Sort of.

Although the majority is behind me now, I know that the waning weeks are the longest-- but at least the end is in sight (if the end is located above the waist, anyway.) I've got weekly internal exams, a RhoGAM shot and a spinal tap to look forward to. In a few days, I'll have an outie belly button. Yahoo.

But then there are the quiet, tender moments at this six month milestone that bring on the selective amnesia again--this time about the complaints. A tiny foot will poke me in the rib or a hand will travel across my belly and I'll marvel that it only took 24 weeks to make that. And that in the next 16, he'll develop and grow rapidly.

I guess a little heartburn is well worth a little beating heart. I'll rest on the day after the 18th year or so.

©2007 Tracey Henry

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