So…I may have gotten a little tired and lazy on Thursday and didn’t post a picture. Perhaps I’m also in denial. HOW IS HE STILL IN HERE? I know I sound ridiculous, seeing as 37 is just barely full term, but I’ve had so many different episodes of painful contractions that I’ve started counting with a stopwatch, only to have them gradually spread back out again into just Braxton Hicks. Twice last night, painful contractions woke me up and I started timing them, only to wake up with Jesse’s alarm a few hours later, no labor, no baby. Agh! It’s maddening.
Today, I did some contemplating about this whole me + pregnancy thing. The truth is, I should be very grateful. As far as average pregnancies go, mine have both been relatively easy and complication free. No swelling, no stretch marks, no throwing up, no bed rest, no gestational diabetes, no anemia, no Strep B,
no hormone swings. Without exercising or dieting (I eat icecream/McFlurries every single day), I only gain 20-30 pounds, and last time I lost it all within a week.
So, by all accounts, it would seem that I should be fine with pregnancy. We should be buds. Just some heartburn that a Tums or glass of milk here or there makes bearable, and some nausea that makes me extremely picky all of the time. I don’t necessarily have child-bearing hips, as they say, but hey, they brought Gregory into the world just fine, all the same (although they feel like someone took a baseball bat to each side!). But my chiropractor has almost completely cured my horrible sciatica, caused by my curved tailbone, so even that’s not an issue anymore! And the awful carpal tunnel hasn’t made it’s dreaded appearance again, either.
But I don’t love pregnancy. I really really really don’t. I hate being incapacitated, I hate having to say “no” because I’m too weak and tired, and I hate having my brain muddled by anything that’s slightly difficult or frustrating. I want to be emotionally available to help people, and I want to be physically able to help around the house, to hold Gregory for long periods of time again, to “shoot hoops” with Gregory and Jesse outside (I’ve tried shooting once or twice, without the help of any ab muscles, obviously, and G just gives me this look like, “really, mom? that’s pathetic.”).
People reminisce about pregnancy, remembering how “special” they felt, carrying a life around inside of them, but I just feel like a spectacle or a circus freak. Last week at the store, I realized that I kept receiving a certain “look” that reminded me more of a grimace. It was as if people were staring and going, “Oh, you look miserable!”. Last night, as we were all sitting on the couches, I asked Jesse to get something for me from the table. He said he’d rather not, so I said I’d get it. Immediately, he responded, “No! Then I’ll feel bad! I don’t want to watch you!” “Is it THAT grotesque? That painful???” I growled. He paused, got very silent, then whispered, “yes?” Wrong answer, dude.
I’ve always had the desire for many children, all the way back to when I was 10 years old and talked all the time of the orphanages I was going to found. I always pictured having 4-5 kids of my own, along with adopting a bunch more.
But why is it so hard to grow kids? I’m willing to give them a home, love them, make sacrifices for them. I’ll even go through labor, episiotomies and cracked tailbones…anything! Why does one have to be pregnant, on top of all that?
I know I sound ridiculous and ungrateful. Please excuse the pregnancy ranting, it probably won’t make sense to me in a few weeks either.