By the time my third pregnancy rolled around, I pretty much knew what I was getting into. Sure, I understood that each pregnancy is different, and all's fair in love and gestation. But still, I had a clear idea of what to expect from my body. Nausea for three or for weeks, pesky pregnancy acne until mid-second trimester. Somewhere between 30 and 40 extra pounds. Basically, I'd survived my first two pregnancies relatively unscathed. And, for the majority of pregnancy #3, things progressed just as predicted. That is, until the last month...
In other words, those were my ugly Flinstone feet, damn it, and I wanted them back!
The happy ending, of course, is that I did get my feet back, within about 48 hours of giving birth. But those puffy feet haunt me still. They remind me that sometimes it is only through loss of control that we find stability, that my body has accomplished incredible things, that painting your toenails without sweating and gasping for air is a treat, and that being pregnant really, really sucks.