There comes a point in every pregnancy when you realise that you are
I officially reached that point at 3.50am this morning, lying in bed, drowning in my own nasal secretions, varicose veins throbbing, unable to decide if I was hot or cold, needing to pee [again], unable to sleep, Baby Number Three doing a Zumba class with its mates, pins and needles in every extremity.
All I want is to be able to roll onto my tummy and have a nap. Not so much to ask really.
I am two weeks away from delivering which doesn't seem like much, especially since my bags are still unpacked, Husband still seems in denial another baby is on its way, and the cot is full of packing boxes and empty cartons.
I think I have done quite well up to this point, especially since the temperature in Perth lately has exceeded 40 on a number of days, and looks to be heading back that way later this week.
But I am no longer fondly rubbing my belly with that blissful look pregnant women have. I am now looking around for the nearest curry.
In short, I am a sweaty, waddling, short-tempered mess. OV. ER. IT.