It’s official: I pee every two minutes. Well, maybe not every two minutes, but at least twice per hour, if not more. That also includes the middle of the night when suddenly I awake from my dreams because of a swift little fetus-kick to the bladder. I honestly feel like my need to use the toilet is disrupting my life. I can’t sleep, eat, or exercise without having to take a leak after 20 minutes.
Obviously, this feeling of impending pants-wetting is due to the fact that I’m in the home stretch of pregnancy. The baby’s so big now that there’s not much room to spare in this ‘ole womb of mine. Not to mention that I think my little peanut unbreeched itself the other night (what else would explain the feeling like someone was sawing open my stomach from the inside out?) so it’s enjoying its newfound freedom to move around by playing pinball with my bladder.
And though I’ve given serious thought to purchasing adult diapers, I have not. I don’t think I will; I’ve got to keep my dignity in some capacity. But I do buy enough Charmin to toilet paper an entire neighborhood or make mummy costumes for an army — with no end in sight until this kid is delivered mid-November.