Pregnancy is (literally) undoing me.

My Sunday so far, with apologies to people who are already parents and will have no truck with self-indulgence at this stage:
1. Wake up. Move slightly, and experience violent, searing sensation of muscles just below sternum ripping apart, as I have every morning (and twice every night) for the last two or three weeks. Immediately begin to scream quietly for a few minutes, alarming my husband. Explain as he says “should I call someone?” that diastasis recti is normal, and I’ll be fine in a minute, but for now I literally CANNOT MOVE OR I WILL BREAK.
2. Get up sideways in spite of blind panic. Immediately feel better. Husband goes back to sleep.
3. Breakfast alone while listening to “The Longest Shortest Time”, and cry because parenting sounds so hard. Pull self together. Brush teeth. 
3a. Decide to stay at home instead of going to mass, because of tiredness/missing the latest submission deadline for the book/general dishevelledness.
4. Do some writing, achieving more this morning than I have in the last week. Rejoice at apparent return of attention span. Worry that it is temporary.
4a. Second breakfast.
5. Put away presents from yesterday’s baby shower. Become overwhelmed at the generosity and thoughtfulness of friends, especially Roya’s handwritten notes attached to small baby items saying why they might be useful. The tiny Peter Rabbit stickers are strangely moving. Cry again.
6. Imminent plan: go back to bed, because everyone keeps telling me to catch up on sleep while I can.
Soon I’ll write something really thoughtful about pregnancy. Maybe even today! But not right now.