The boob saga continues well into 22 weeks. I took another trip to the maternity triage last weekend because I was getting pretty pissed off with having a really hurty boob and the antibiotics were doing nothing for it. The midwife told me mastitis is rare in pregnancy and to be honest, I didn't have the whole fluey thing you get with it so I did wonder. Anyway, according to the doctor it's completely normal. Part relieved, part livid that I'd been taking antibiotics for almost two weeks for no reason and they'd made me feel like shit. Ah, the NHS. So good yet so fucking bad.
My vagina still threatens to drop out every day and it gets worse with time which I knew would be the case but I'm sucking up the pain, hell I've been in labour so I can deal with this shit. Just. I still have clear skin and shiny hair which is a bonus but the nausea still lingers in the background like the little bitch it is. But boob and vagina aside, I feel ok.
I've been eating a lot of ice cream and avoiding the scales which I know I'll regret come November when I'm fat on my 30th but my aim is to drink through it and properly celebrate it next year when I'm not longer a flabby, leaky mess. In about five years.
Still struggling with clothes but I guessed as it gets hotter (GET HOTTER) I can just wear less. It's totally acceptable to wear a bikini to the Co-op right? (It is in these parts)
Really, though, I'm struggling this week. People think that being pregnant and having a four year old is easy because they can amuse themselves but that's not always true. Especially not when the sun is shining. I'm so tired, SO tired, and I'm not sleeping well plus Lil thought it would be fun to wake up at 9:30 last night and was totally down with staying awake until gone 2:30 this morning. And it's me that has to sort this kind of shit out, naturally. All I do all day is sit on my arse and eat cake, I don't have an important paid job. I can see into the future and it ain't pretty.
I'll be back when life isn't so ragey.