Adventures of a Road-tripping Preggo

I will admit that journeying 12 hours in each direction up and back down the east coast is less than ideal at any given time.  Believe me when I tell you it's worse when you're 31 weeks pregnant.  If you care to indulge me, I'll include you in some of the all-too-true experiences I've had as a road-tripping, 3rd-trimester pregnant woman.   Most of these things occurred somewhere between miles and miles of pine trees on I-95 between Georgia and Maryland (I don't know why I shared that part, maybe that fact might be important to someone).

With less than an hour to go on the trip, I figured it might help if I took my pants off to buy some time before having to stop to use the restroom.  After all, that big thick elastic waistband pressing directly on the bladder doesn't help the situation.

I've found that there's simply no way to get comfy sitting in the passenger seat.  It's worse in the driver's seat - exponentially even. 

By some strange coincidence, I developed ragin' heartburn complete with a pain that shot through my ribs every time I got behind the wheel.  And bless Sam's heart, he didn't even think I was faking it.  Even I thought I was faking it (but I really wasn't, I promise).

When I was pregnant with Sarah, I went in the back seat to do some work during the 12 hour drive because it seemed like the perfect way to pass the time and clock some hours.  Less than 30 minutes into it, I ended up falling asleep. 

Hours before we leave, I have to start rationing drinks even more so than usual - knowing that a single sip of water will result in 3 subsequent bathroom breaks less than 30 minutes into the trip.

I stared longingly at the 24-hour restaurant signs on I-95 because, no surprise, I'm hungry at all hours of the night. 

Tasks that used to be simple, like reaching a dropped toy or finding some Tums in the toiletry bag right behind my seat, are suddenly acts of congress thanks to my giant bulging belly.

I realize after I get to our destination that I really could have left all of those dressier maternity pants at home because I couldn't possibly care less if the relatives I see twice annually see me in my red yoga pants that, in my opinion, match every shirt I own.

I cried real tears when Sam packed every cubic inch of our van with Christmas goodies, suitcases, clothes, and every other thing under the sun for the final 2.5 hour leg of our trip home.  And I couldn't even explain why.

The moral of this story?  Pregnant women are crazy.  And crazy uncomfortable.

But you know what?  The trip was still worth it.