I can't wait to feel like shit.

A delusional poem about future hopes

I can’t wait to feel like shit.

To feel so sick.

To feel like I could puke at any moment.

To feel safest when closest to a toilet, just in case.

I can’t wait to complain about my breasts.

How big they’re getting

How sore they are

How I can barely walk at a leisurely pace without them bouncing in pain.

I can’t wait for the heartburn.

To feel it after one bite

Of an apple,

A sandwich,

Hell, a sip of water.

I can’t wait for every food to sound awful.

To crave nothing and gag at everything.

I can’t wait to feel the exhaustion.

To barely be able to function during the day.

To almost fall asleep at my desk during work hours.

To require daily naps because growing a human is hard.

I can’t wait to feel massive.

Fat.

Huge.

Disgusting.

All the words women aren’t allowed to say but can’t help but think and feel

When they’re pregnant.

I can’t wait to look in the mirror and not recognize my face

My body

My hair

To be jarred by my new appearance.

To fret about never “getting my body back”

And pine for the days when I could walk a mile in under 20 minutes.

I can’t wait for when nothing fits.

That moment when it’s too soon to tell anyone, but I can’t button my jeans.

Even my leggings feel tight.

To stare at my closet in frustration, desperately wanting to get dressed

But feeling defeated.

I’ll smile.

And not-so-secretly love it and relish it.

I can’t wait for the inability to laugh or sneeze without peeing.

To have next to no control over my bladder

That my baby is squishing with reckless abandon.

I can’t wait to be uncomfortable.

For “uncomfortable” to be my baseline,

My new normal.

To be incapable of finding any position that feels even slightly okay.

To look back fondly on a “good night’s sleep” and sigh.

I can’t wait for the involuntary hormone fluctuations.

For an ever-changing mood that my husband can hardly navigate.

To cry at every little thing (more than I already do)

To weep at silly commercials and intrusive thoughts.

Dare I say, I can’t wait for the cankles.

Or the stretch marks.

Or the pepperoni nipples I’ve heard so much about.

Maybe I’m delusional.

Desperate.

Kidding myself.

But, right now

In this exact moment,

I feel anything but.

I feel ready.

Ready to feel like shit.

And I can’t wait.

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