The word 'misery' can mean different things to different people.
For some it can mean being duck taped to a fence post while a donkey with screw drivers bolted to its hooves repeatedly kicks you over and over in the kidneys.
For others it can mean being bombarded by flocks of strangers every time you venture into public and the subsequent looks of horror and disgust on those strangers' faces when their one common question is answered with "I've got two more months."
And for a lucky few of us it can mean a magnificent combination of both.
I remember being uncomfortable with both of my previous pregnancies, but this is unreal.
Moving is fine. Moving is good. As long as I'm putting one foot in front of the other we have no problems.
The problems creep up when, like an idiot, I sit down for a moment to rest and my back has a chance to regroup and plot its revenge. A revenge that varies in degrees of pain - pain which is directly proportionate to my level of activity:
Carrying load of laundry up stairs = little crick in lower back while taking first few steps after setting down laundry basket
Carrying child up stairs = sharp pain originating in back then radiating down both legs and around to belly, resulting in yelp and limping for at least two minutes while holding back tears and questioning life choices
Walking around zoo for three hours, lifting two children into and out of stroller several times, holding children up because view of rhino was obscured by god damned fence, lifting onto and off of carousel from Hell, into and out of car seats, carrying both children up flight of stairs because were dead asleep in said car seats by the time we got home = oh my fucking lord I think I just shit out my spine. Yes, yes I did just shit out my spine. And both kidneys. Please Jesus just kill me. Maybe if I army crawl into bathroom I can push myself up enough to lap some water out of toilet to quench thirst. No, no, that hurts too much. Maybe if I lay on stomach I can use toes to inch into kitchen, find butcher knife and perform emergency c-section on self to alleviate pain.
Frankly, I share the strangers' sentiments of horror and disgust when I think about having seven weeks left. Getting off the couch is an Olympic sport. Turning over in bed takes 30 minutes and involves a levy system made out of sheets while I scream and bite my pillow.
Plus my stomach is already so big, by the time it's time to deliver I'm going to look like Jabba the Hut, perched in a Barka Lounger wading in a puddle of skin while Nick feeds me pancakes.