You see, when I got knocked up, I arranged my schedule so that I could teach three super-long days instead of spreading it out into a five-day week. My reasoning at the time was that I would come home feeling exhausted no matter how long or short my day was, so I might as well only work three days and then have four to recuperate.
It backfired people. In a big way.
I know, wah wah wah, I have to work three whole days a week! Woe is me! You are probably pissed at me already. But they are teaching days in which I teach for HOURS and HOURS and HOURS and ALL IN A ROW with not so much as a five minute break to sit down and cry.
And teaching is hard. I am seriously "on" the whole time, walking, talking, answering, doing high kicks, and making developing paragraphs entertaining. And with my schedule, that continues straight through the entire day. Like, when I try to sneak out the door to the bathroom when my students are doing group work, someone will call me over with a question, and I will scream in my head SON, I am PREGNANT!! but then I rush over to do that teaching thing so he can do that learning thing and it is lovely, but then the baby (who I am pretty sure at this point is bent on my destruction) KICKS MY BLADDER and all I can think is that one day SHE will win the battle, and OH MY GOD, if I pee on a student ... I have no idea what will happen if I pee on a student, but I'm pretty sure it will involve bad things.
And the eating. OH, the eating. I want to eat all day every day, but I usually don't even have five minutes in between classes to scarf down a yogurt, because my students stay after and ask me questions, and I appreciate that so much because it means they care and they want to better themselves, but I pretty much get through the day by sneaking almonds out of my purse and shouting "Look over there!" to my students so I can eat in class.
And then, in my last class of the day, I try to find five minutes to sit while my students are working in order to appease my feet that are, at that point, swelling out of my shoes, and baby is like NO WAY. In order to sit up straight at my desk, I have to bend at the waist (heaven forbid) and apparently that is where she likes to hang out, and she does NOT appreciate me taking up her precious uterus space. So she kicks. And kicks. And kicks so hard that eventually I will let loose a "Oooof!" and the only way to regain peace in my belly and my dignity is to stand back up, even though my feet are like, "Bad move, lady," to which I respond, "Listen, this baby is totally the boss of me, and she will only be happy if I recline, lay on my side, or stand up, and I can only do one of those things right now."
"Oh yeah," my feet say, "Can the baby grow another size and force you to buy all new shoes?"
So, I get home, walk straight to the kitchen to make a late dinner, gorge myself, and then lay on the couch, crying, shouting that the lights are too bright and I will die at any moment.
Jeremy will try to think of a million things to appease me, to which I will always respond *whimper* "No." *whimper*, so he sighs, turns on the Tigers game, and probably wonders how this can actually get worse as I get more pregnant (but oh, it can) while I ask for another foot rub.
And THEN I wake up on Thursday mornings, stumbling and weaving like a drunk person, with a headache like only the worst hangover would bring, and my feet feeling as if I have been walking on metal spikes all night. So the advantage to having three hell days? Turns out, there are none. And my husband maybe wants to divorce me and I am probably only days away from peeing in class and then I will be fired and poor.
BUT, I got a fun package in the mail, so I feel a lot less dead. I know I kinda just ended abruptly there, but that's the end of my story. Also, the story was probably lame. I blame the deads.