Confession #3: Pregnancy

I firmly support you and tip my hat if you’re of the opinion that pregnancy is a beautiful thing, that carrying a child has never made you look more beautiful, and that the movements of your baby are something you’ll miss.

I can only get on board with the first of the three above statements. Pregnancy is beautiful…in a “I’m making a baby and my body is no longer my own” kind of way. Personally, there is nothing to miss about being 30 pounds overweight, in pain 40% of the time, and having the inability to sleep comfortably or for a longer than two hour stretch. Midnight, 2AM and 4AM pee breaks are not charming and are crazily unwelcome.

Why no one told me about these “little side effects” before signing up for any of my pregnancies is sure to show how little my friends care about me. There has to me some secret drug they give you post-delivery that makes you forget how much you hate not being able to eat sushi, sleep on your stomach, or enjoy a craft beer with your super hot husband.

In an effort to not sound cranky and resentful about being blessed with another child I’ll interrupt with this tidbit of love: I’m stoked to cuddle my bambino. I’m also stoked to see what our new “normal” will be. Unfortunately I have somewhere between 24 hours and 5 weeks (ish) until I find out so, for now, I’ll get on my soapbox of “Yo! Pregnancy is all kinds of whack!”

–I have a girlfriend who said once that she doesn’t just get pregnant in her stomach, her whole body gets pregnant. I feel ya, sister. Though I’m trending a healthier weight gain with C than K, the reality remains that I’m not getting any smaller and my tolerance level isn’t getting any higher. I’m of the opinion that I need a live-in masseuse and could greatly benefit from a weekly daily house cleaner. I prayed for and am thankful for this child that’s due any second. I’m elated when, after a period of stillness, a move here or there to remind me he’s safe and sound. I do not appreciate the deep jabs and cervical kicks that I’m sure are both intentional and out of resentment for providing such a small living space.

–My days of wearing tank tops that cover my entire butt just to help hide the fact that not even a belly band can help hold my unbuttoned and unzipped pants up are numbered. I’ve moved on to my sweet husband’s side of the closet for some shirts that make me feel less like a high school girlfriend trying to be cool and wear her athletic boyfriend’s clothes and more like someone who should seriously entertain the idea of laying off the Oreo’s. Speaking of…I should seriously entertain the notion that Oreo’s are a combination of Crisco and unpronouncable yumminess. For some reason this doesn’t deter me and I assure you once I set this post up to go live I’ll snag another for good measure. Heck, maybe even a dunking cup of milk. Organic of course.

–I didn’t know that it would take no less than three pillows to get in a semi-comfortable position or that we’d need to invest in a California King to give me adequate room for comfort.

I am the small child in the above picture. Plus the mom. And a third of the dad. Maybe we’ll move the couch next to our bed and Chris can just sleep there…

–And the heat. My goodness, the heat.

‘Nuff said.
–Don’t forget the heartburn. Y’all, even a bottle of Tums from Costco wasn’t gonna cut it. For some reason I waited well until my third trimester to try an OTC antacid. My life has been blessed. Deeply and richly blessed. I am not above modern medicine, nor am I willing to sacrifice eating tomatoes, or anything with flavor just because my stomach is all “let’s crank up the acid production for this lady.” Plus, taking 5-10 Tums daily for, oh, 6 months, is considered an overdose. Oops. At least my kid’s got strong bones?
–And finally, the mother (ha!) of all issues I’ve had with pregnancy, especially this one, is strangers (or non strangers, even you awesome family and friend folk) obsession with touching/marveling/commenting on/asking questions about my growing midsection. I still feel bad for the gal at Buc-ee’s who asked me how far along I was while I responded with “I’m not pregnant.” The look on her face was priceless but I felt really crummy denying the child in me that I desperately wanted all in an effort to prove a point: basically don’t ask a woman how far along she is unless she’s being checked for cervical dilation. Err on the side of caution that pregnant women be all kinds of hormonal and play it safe. In recent months I’ve become more comfortable saying “no” when asked if someone can rub all up on the belly but the people pleaser in me really wants to make everyone happy so I silently cringe and detach myself from the situation. I am so thrilled that you find my growing body to be so sweet. I really am. I would much rather you wait and hold my child once it has been delivered than copping a  feel that in any other situation could be considered harassment. 
This may be you! I’m well aware that I’m likely on an island in my thinking and mad props to you homies who find it just as endearing to be touched/rubbed/”oohed” and “aahed” over as the person touching you. I do not. I can not. I will not. (Sam I Am, anyone?)
Please remind me of this post in a year or three when I’m pregnant again and have somehow forgotten that my pregnancy experience, though such a blessing and truly a gift from God, is not always rainbows and sunshine. Also, feel free to bring me a latte and something that smells like lavender. Maybe I’ll let you touch my stomach then. But only for a second.
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