The OTHER Labor Day: Why the 3rd trimester is Worse than Labor

Although I haven’t been pregnant in a long time, I doubt I’ll ever forget that desperation at the end…bring on LABOR, dammit…because by the 3rd trimester, you’re just over it.
So in honor of Labor Day, I thought it’d be fun to list all the things pregnant mommas believe are waaaay worse than the actual childbirth itself:
Those thick pads you wear since your urine now dribbles freely as you walk, cough, sneeze, breathe…you know, live.
Having to duck walk to barely make it to the toilet for that first morning pee.
Forgetting what your feet look like, which is fine since they’re currently swollen beyond all recognition.
Speaking of swelling, screw the ankles, what the hell happened to your nose?!
It’s now entirely too dangerous to groom yourself with a razor anywhere below the waist.
(Seriously. Stay away from the nether regions, ladies. It’s not worth it.)
Hemorrhoids. Multiple, too many to count, I think my ass is swelling shut, hemorrhoids. Which means, pooping sends ripples of fear up your husband’s spine with the noises you’re making in there.
Wiping has become it’s own Olympic sport.
Varicose veins that resemble a roadmap through downtown Tokyo.
Did your water just break?! Nope. Pissed yourself. Again.
When people use words like ‘wow’ and ‘huge’ and tell you it looks like you’re having twins.
Awesome, you get to throat punch another human being today.
Do you know the pelvic bone can actually begin separating? Ice pic to the vagina pretty much sums that up.
Heartburn so bad you’re sure if you burp you’ll actually vomit flames.
Feel that tingling sharp numbing pain coursing through your left butt cheek and down your leg? Yeah, that’s Sciatica. Enjoy.
Four inches of natural color roots sprouting out the top of your head has you seriously weighing the risks of chemicals on your hair during pregnancy and you're leaning toward it might be worth it.
Acne at the age of 34?! What the f***?!?
Constantly walking that super fine line between super horny and super pissed at the mere sight of your husband.
The size of your own boobs actually prevents you from taking a deep breath.
You can now empathize with helpless turtles when they get stuck on their backs and thinking about that makes you lay there and cry because…oh, no reason, just crying. Again.
You walk around the house like a cat, rubbing up against anything within reach just to stop the incessant itch of every inch of your skin which is currently stretched beyond all human capacity.
Pregnancy pants. Burn those sons of bitches.
You’d at least like the option of picking things up after you drop them.
Normal sex. You never think you’ll long for missionary style until it’s no longer an option.
My husband watching me eat as one might observe a wild animal in it’s natural habitat at feeding time.
Weekly weigh-ins. Is that a freight scale they’re using, now?!
But more than anything, you’re simply ready to see that baby…because right now you’re pretty convinced it’s not a baby at all, but rather a tiny ninja beating the shit out of you from the inside.
Happy Labor Day, ladies.
May your water break and the stabbing pains begin.
This post is dedicated to my beautiful daughter, Aubrey, whose “labor day” is expected the end of January.