The end of pregnancy is wrought with exhaustion and constant urination.

Insomnia coupled with intense sweating.

Cramps and pain and waddles.

It’s not a miracle; it’s a nightmare.

I crave things I’ve run out of room to eat.  I’m cranky and irritable.  I just want a nap and a marathon of some cheesy reality series and cheesier snacks.

But my children don’t care or humor me in the least, and neither does the Navy.

My husband isn’t home to help anymore.  And this baby is coming soon.  Very soon.

But not soon enough.

It’s not fall down here in the South yet.  My legs sweat like sausages in a pan when I leave the house wearing anything but maternity underwear. Not to mention that nothing fits.

And the crying.  Oh, the crying.

My daughter is doing a school lesson on sea turtles, and we watched several YouTube videos of the hatchling turtles digging out of their beach nests and wiggling their tiny turtle bodies down to the sea foam before being swept up by the ocean waves.

And I cried the tears of joy I couldn’t control because they were just so cute.  And little.  And they were trying so hard to beat it down to that surf.

My hormones are out of control.

So, in fact, a total nightmare may be an understatement.

I’m just grateful it’s almost over.  But I’m also scared of what this birth will look like.

Without my husband’s support and the added burden of my daughters.

Plus, because it’s my third baby, I am simply not ready.  Tiny onesies aren’t folded.  Blankets aren’t washed.  I need a little more time.

It’s enough to bring on the tears again.  It makes me thoroughly confused and emotional.

It’s all very muddy these days, these end of pregnancy days.

So I may be miserable, but it’s true.

 I’m not ready yet.