Overall, I would have to say that I like being pregnant. (This is probably obvious when you consider that I’ve been pregnant every year since 2009 (except 2012; I wasn’t pregnant AT ALL in 2012: The Year Of the Empty Uterus)). Anyway. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not all cupcakes and rainbows (or bacon and … whatever the opposite of rainbows is …). I don’t love all parts of being pregnant. (For example, I don’t like when my back hurts so much that I can’t walk. Or when I have such bad heartburn that it tastes like someone threw up in my mouth.) In general, however, I do like being pregnant.
I’ve been very lucky in my pregnancies. I’ve never had any form of morning sickness. (In fact, in four pregnancies I have only thrown up one time, and that was before I even knew I was pregnant with Baby No. 2. I just assumed it was because I had eaten some bad cheese.) I’m fortunate that both myself and my babies have been healthy throughout the pregnancies (although in my second pregnancy I did go to the hospital for bleeding, but, as it turned out, it was just an angry hemorrhoid (TMI? Tough.) that—after that—never bothered me again. Oh, and I think I drove myself to the hospital one afternoon during pregnancy No. 3, but I can’t for the life of me remember why—so clearly it was some non-issue that my hormone-addled brain made up at the time.
Now, I’m sure if I go back and read past blog posts or Facebook statuses, I’ll find that I had plenty to complain about while I was pregnant. But that’s because I’m an excellent complainer. I can complain about anything. Plus, through the miracle of Mother Nature’s wisdom, we somehow totally forget all the pain and discomfort of pregnancy once it’s over (which is what encourages us to become pregnant again). And it isn’t until we’re too far in that the memories of the pain and suffering come rushing back. But by that point it’s too late; you’re committed.
This time that I’m in right now, around the middle of my pregnancies, is what I like best. I can feel the baby moving but it doesn’t kick so hard that it takes my breath away and makes me pee my pants. (Think that won’t happen to you? Keep having babies. It didn’t happen to me until my third pregnancy. During the first two I was like, HA! Those poor, weak-bladdered souls. I’ll never involuntarily wet MY pants! Then pregnancy No. 3 came along and made a liar out of me on that one.) My belly is big enough that it’s clear that I’m pregnant and not a question of whether I might just drink too much beer (which is what my husband likes to tell people when they ask if I’m pregnant … “Oh, that’s not a baby; she just drinks a lot of beer”). It’s big enough that it fills out maternity clothes (because there is nothing I love better than a good pair of elastic waist pants) but not so big that I can’t find a shirt to cover it. It also isn’t so big that it’s in my way and prevents me from sleeping.
In about 12 weeks I’ll need you to refer me back to this post. Because by that time, I’ll be waddling to and fro (mostly on my way to the bathroom), my ankles will be swollen, my underwear will be giving me a perpetual wedgie, I won’t be able to sleep more than six minutes in a row (both due to how uncomfortable it is to have to sleep on my side and because of all the peeing), and I’ll be convinced, regardless of what anyone tells me, that I look like a beached whale. Also, I will be convinced that the baby is never coming out. I’ve done this thrice before, and the baby has always come out. And yet, I can guarantee that I’ll be convinced this one is staying in forever. Because pregnancy hormones are real. And they’re crazy.
In the meantime, I’ll just enjoy the time I have now with my still reasonably-sized bump!