I’m a house.
I’m losing my balance and crying for no reason. I can’t sleep for fear of having a heart attack – my heart races and I can’t breath when I lay down so I sleep sitting up.
I have how many more months? Two! Nine weeks to be exact. I’m trying to embrace it because I don’t know if I’ll get to do this again, but it’s not for the weak. I’m running a marathon – carrying an extra 15 pounds around while chasing a 16 month old who thinks it’s hilarious to run out into traffic. And his brother has decided that it would be great fun to kick the tar out of my insides, perhaps make a punching bag of my bladder. I have feet sticking out of my sides and elbows in my ribs.
God, help me to enjoy even the uncomfortable, exhausting moments for this is truly a gift.
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