I always knew this would be hard. I’ve seen the faces of female relatives and friends in anguish, but trying to smile through it. That little piece of reality has always been deeply embedded in my mind, but I don’t know yet how difficult its going to be. I’m going to be a Mum in just under 2 months time. I’m honestly peeing my pants from shock at the very thought of it.
But to the women, and men, who have said and will say; Oh, You just need to enjoy it more! …
Go and die in a hole.
I will admit, that this experience is a (probable) once-in-a-life-time thing for me, and I will most likely not go through it again. I’m trying to enjoy all of the changes that my body is being dealt… but to a point. It’s like having your head and body removed from one another, and then seeing your body flung at a concrete wall… repeatedly. It comes back to you bruised, battered, bleeding and not entirely the way you left it, but it came back none the less, so you’ve got to be happy about that… right?
(Note: Don’t get me wrong, I will want more children. I’ve always imagined myself with a house bustling with kids, dogs, cats and family at all hours of the day and night. But, it’s safe to say that this will be, most likely, my only chance to carry naturally. No doubt that in a year or two’s time I’ll get that niggling feeling again, poke my husband and say How you doin’? with a raised eyebrow… then sign the adoption paper work and send it off with everything on my body that is crossable, crossed.)
Pregnancy is not better or worse that my previous state of being. It’s just different. It isn’t going to give me super powers, nor make me into a reticulated blob for the rest of my life.
It means that the feelings from being touched are altered, the sight of my ass as I enter a room will be burned into my retina for all eternity … and afterwards, my stomach might not ever be as flat as it was before. The fact that I’ve had hardly any cravings or aversions is both a blessing and a nightmare. The bed that my husband and I sleep in has had many a tear stained pillow on it, and not to mention the raucous parties that this child has with my internal organs.
But, that’s OK. I treasure the good moments, with the bad. I try not to feel guilty for the days that I’m laid up in bed with back pains, unable to do more than pitifully whine. Then the next, I’ll be bouncing around the house like a 5 year old, doing everything I didn’t do the day before, and more. Along the way, I have this little lovable meat-pile behind my guts, reminding me to eat 16 times and day, and feeling every punch and kick like as if I’ll never feel it again.
And of course, I cry. I cry because of reasons that haven’t entered my head in the last 20 years. I cry because we’re out of bread. I cry because I’ve just seen my dogs to something cute, or I cry because I feel like the world is caving in and I can’t seem to handle it today.
But, at the end of the day – this little cranky ball of faecal matter and tears that is lodged inside me, will be the thing that I love the most in the entire world, even more than myself. I will stay awake night after night trying to desperately make sure that it is Ok, and that I’m doing the right thing by it. The tiny face that looks back at me will make me feel like I can, and will, do anything to protect this little creature.
In my mind, that’s Ok.
I’m going about this as well as I can, and anyone who has a problem with that … can get in line because I’m sure there will be a few of you.