There are two kinds of women in this world. For some women, being pregnant is this amazing, earthy experience. They get the glow. They feel energized and organic. The look somehow sexier. They fit into their pre-pregnancy jeans before they drive home from the hospital. I have a few friends like this. Case in point: my friend Angela, at the hospital IN LABOR, wearing her high-heels and looking hot.
And then there’s the rest of us.
For some of us, pregnancy feels like having the flu for 9 months. With a stuffy nose and heartburn and insomnia and heart palpitations. And as the tummy gets bigger, the thighs decide that they need to balance things out. And then the butt needs to get in on the action. And then you get so swollen that your chin grows to twice it’s normal size. You can only wear stretchy fat pants and flip-flops. You get hip dysplagia and walk like a wounded dog.
During this pregnancy, I have been pretty miserable. Morning sickness, migraines, braxton hicks . . . you name it. I am really excited about the baby coming, but I am also really excited to not be pregnant anymore.
I think it’s hard for those of us who longed for a pregnancy to finally accept that there are many aspects to pregnancy that pretty much suck. I was such a martyr while pregnant with India. I never wanted to acknowledge how hard it was, or complain. But this time, I have given myself permission to be frustrated and complain just a little. Women having been complaining about pregnancy since the dawn of time. Just because I experienced loss doesn’t mean my pregnancy will be devoid of frustration, or that I have to paint on a smile and pretend like nothing is bothering me. For one, because that is insane. But also, I’m just not the kind of person who says things like:
So here I am, complaining again. I want this to be done. SOON. It doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. Disliking frequent nausea, pelvic pain, Braxton-Hicks contractions, or heartburn does not mean I cherish the pregnancy any less. It means I am experiencing pregnancy in the same fullness as everyone else: good and bad. I keep reminding myself that it’s the end result that matters. But being so sick has really affected me, and it makes me feel depressed and useless. I struggle every day.
All that to say, I am ready for Karis to make her arrival, and I am ready to move on to complaining about things like how little sleep I’m getting, how sore my boobs are, and how hard it is to parent three kids. NONE OF WHICH WILL MEAN I LOVE THEM ANY LESS.