Large SeaCow scenario 1
I have not taken a bath since I was like 12. I love a good hot tub/sauna situation but sitting in a tub, washing the filth from my body and then laying around in it just gives me the creeps. Not to mention the fact that you can see every speck of dirt, mildew, etc that you missed when you were scrubbing the tub. You are also now laying around basking in those. Anyhoo, despite this most natural aversion, I got the idea in my head that I wanted a hot bath. My back and legs hurt and I was cold and clearly this pregnancy has made me delusional because I thought a bath would feel nice. First of all, the acrobatic moves required to lower myself into the tub could only be matched by the lithe midget performers of Cirque Du Soleil. Once the feat had been managed, I turned on the hot water and let it flow. It did warm me up. If we had like a sexy jacuzzi tub or something this would have been better. Trying to lie against a fake porcelain surface at about a 93 degree angle is not actually comfortable. Your back and neck are, once again, pushed into incredibly awkward positions reminiscent of a patient with some type of palsy. (Sidenote, one of the contestants on My OWN show, Oprah's search for the next TV star, said cerebral palsy is the sexiest of all the palsies and I must say I agree). After lying there for about 4 mins and realizing that from my vantage point (standing and only seeing what is not hidden by the belly) and from Eric's vantage point (being male) we had not seen this disgusting four inch, thin line of mold/mildew growing under the faucet. Officially creeped out, I started draining the tub and preparing to shower all tub filth from my body. I vowed to never again be seduced by the false promises of heat and relaxation that the tub so smoothly sells.
Large Seacow Scenario Scene 2
After my horrifying bathing experience which scarred me for life, I again got into a dangerous dance with the tub, my old arch-nemesis. It needed to be scrubbed in a heavy duty way. Now, under normal circumstances, such as a weight that is in compliance with the fire code, this is a boring but uncomplicated task. If, however, you can't bend down in pretty much any way and the energy you are able to expend without collapsing is equal to that necessary to watch Dr Phil and resist throwing stuff at the television, then this gets complicated.
My well-laid plan was to get naked and sit in the tub while I washed the bottom of it, then, turn on the shower and stand up to clean the high-up parts of the shower. Seemed pretty straight forward. Seemed like a great idea. Shockingly, it all went very, very wrong. I started by sitting in the tub and scrubbing the bath mat. I will never do this again. They should make terrorists do this to get them to talk. The bottom of the mat is covered in dozens of little suction cups, which need to be individually scrubbed to get the buildup off. So, the mat is on my lap and I'm pouring comet on one row at a time and scrubbing under every stupid lip. More quickly than I would have liked, the tub builds up an inch or so of comet and mildew filled water. I, of course, am sitting in this butt naked and trying not to barf. We already discussed my aversion to sitting in my OWN dirty water, this was worse than listening to Brett Favre talk about retiring. (Dear Brett Favre, If I, Jennifer Silverstein, who pays absolutely no attention to football, am annoyed with you, then you know you are a hot mess). Until now, little Fenbaby was relaxing on the bathmat watching the show. About this time, though, he got curious. He decided that certainly what I needed was for him to jump in the tub. He did so and with my less-than-cat-like speed and reflexes couldn't grab him/get up fast enough to get him. He jumped out and at that moment I froze. The bathroom door was open. There was nothing standing between his now infested feet and my soft warm bed. I heard classic western movie stand-off music playing in the background. Our eyes met and the stand-off began. For every centimeter I moved, he also moved. Finally, I reached an empty toilet paper roll, one of his favorite toys, and was sure it would distract him. To my dismay, he is smarter than me and as soon as I tossed it he jetted into the bedroom, running all over the sheets. I then had to drag my massive body, dripping with the infested water, into the bedroom and corral the dog back into the bathroom and promptly shut the door. I finished the bathmat and washed the bottom half of the tub area rather successfully, though with so much grunting and groaning that anyone listening would have wondered what indecent things could possibly be happening in there.
I happily graduated to standing in the shower and washing the top half, followed by a cleansing and refreshing shower. I am almost certain that I even got all the comet out of the fatty crevices created by my babies/monsters inside me. I got out and dried off only to remember that I now had to wash off Fen's feet in the sink and change the bed linens. Aah, pregnant bliss.
When I started getting big I separated my clothes and put all the clothes that fit in one drawer. I now notice that drawer dwindling as I grow out of each group of items. First to go was anything that I would not be ashamed to wear in public. Then my coat (thankfully, Eric's mom gave me a bigger one to borrow for the winter). Next came all my bras. After that, I grew out of all my "baggy" t-shirts and now I have grown out of most of my undies and pajama pants. Seriously, did you even know you could grow out of pajama pants? They are made to be roomy and my body has now exceeded being "roomy." Being cheap, I also refuse to buy a bunch of stuff when I know this could be over in 2-10 weeks. So, I am left wearing the ONE pair of sweatpants that will fit over me paired with Eric's most ridiculous t-shirts all day and going pants-less at night (too hot for sweatpants). Thankfully, I do have a couple pair of maternity pants that I can wear to my weekly doctor outings coupled with the type of top I most despise above all other things- a sports jersey. Let's just say I look like one super-classy broad.
This subtitle is pretty ironic actually. There isn't a lot of sleeping going on at all. Firstly, as you may have gathered, there are three fetuses (feti?) all pushing their cute little heads right onto my bladder. Baby A has also decided that an enjoyable pass time is to push on my bladder in a repeated motion until I simply can't stand it anymore. I can pee and then by the time I am done washing my hands and brushing my teeth, have to pee again. So, going more than a couple hours at night is unheard of. That is annoying as it is but on top of that pulling my body out of the bed is like a mouse trying to flip a semi. They should have the iron man competition include moving my fat butt around the apartment. Ridiculous.
I generally start the night laying on my right side. In about 30 minutes or so my right arm is completely asleep and even my left arm, from wrapping itself at weird angles around my impressive girth, is tingling. My hips and knees feel like they are being twisted into ungodly positions and I am ready to scream. So, I turn on my back to relieve the pressure for a little while. I can only hold this position for about 20 minutes because the colossal weight of my body is then crushing my lungs. Not to mention that the veins in my nose swell up, rendering nasal respiration impossible. It's then onto my left side for another half hour, maybe hour, before all the joy associated with laying on my right side transfers to my left. I then get the pleasure of starting all over again. Listen babies, we haven't really met yet but for whatever reason I seem to be rather fond of you. Know this, however, if you turn out not to be worth it, I am going to be really disappointed.