I’m officially over being pregnant. I was over it long before seeing that plus sign appear on the test strip. This is my third pregnancy in a little over three years and it feels like I’ve been pregnant forever.
Some people love being pregnant. Me? No, I most certainly do not. If one more person tells me to enjoy my pregnancy, I’m going to punch them in the face. Not really, but I might shoot them some serious daggers while I envision flipping them the bird.
How does one enjoy being pregnant? Your body isn’t your own and you’re no longer able to experience the best life has to offer. You’re expected to follow a never-ending list of strict rules and regulations. Alcohol? No. Sushi? Nope. Caffeine? Only in Moderation. Fish? Certain kinds are acceptable and in specified amounts. All the good medicine is off-limits. The list goes on and on…
On top of that, I’m too busy running after two toddlers to even try to enjoy being pregnant.
So new. So adorable. So exciting. Everyone dotes on you, overfeeding you compliments and telling you how your emitting this radiant glow. Frequent naps are highly encouraged. No one would dare let you lift a finger for fear of overdoing it.
You religiously monitor your pregnancy on one of those tracker apps. You know exactly what week you are and the comparable sized fruit your fetus is. You can’t help but to stare in every mirror you come across hoping to catch a glimpse of a growing baby bump.
People still care, but not as extreme as your first. Offers for help are somewhat common, but few and far in between. Your busy taking care of your first-born, but can still take advantage of some down time here and there.
You find it a little harder to hide your baby bump, ‘popping’ sooner than your first. Your excitement quickly fades into exhaustion.
This diminishes more and more with each pregnancy, until no one pays attention to your growing bump as if it’s always been permanently attached to your mid-section.
Where the hell is everyone?!? Nobody cares. Family and friends are nowhere to be found and have disappeared all-together. Even if you most likely need help now more than ever, offers are nonexistent.
There is no time for yourself or any hope of a nap in your future. You’re too busy running after your two little ones and keeping your lives afloat. Your only option is to keep pushing on.
When someone asks you how far along you are, you have no idea but somehow manage to remember your due date and offer that up as an answer instead. If they really want to know, they can do the math.
You start showing immediately after conception and possibly prior to that just from the thought of having another. You have lost all bladder functions and pee yourself on a daily basis from sneezing, laughing, coughing too hard or just because.
Closing in on the end of the third trimester, I’ve lost the will to care. I especially don’t care what I look like. If it fits, I’m wearing it. Plaid and polka dots? Sounds good to me. Flip flops are always in season. They’re easy to slip on and no wasted energy on socks. Nothing tight. No jeans. There’s a lot more that I won’t wear, than what I’ll entertain the idea of trying to fit into.
You might even see me recycle the same outfit in a shorter amount of time than deemed socially acceptable. I probably have been wearing it for the past few days straight. It’s comfortable and I don’t want the struggle of taking it on and off. Again, I don’t care.
And my hair? I can’t remember the last time I wore it down. Messy bun for life. And not that most sought after effortless neglected chic kind of messy bun. Most days it resembles road kill of some unrecognizable animal left for dead on the top of my head.
I’m sure when I look back at the pictures taken during this time in my life, I’ll regret not trying more, but that’s then. This is now. I don’t care.
I’m too big for everything. Too big for clothes. Too big to be comfortable. Too big to stand. Too big to sit. Too big to run. Too big to live.
I’m definitely too big to bend over. If I drop something, a lot of strategic thought goes into whether or not I’m bending over to pick it up. There had better be a damn good reason for me to put serious effort like that into that kind of strenuous activity. If it’s not life or death, it might stay there until I bribe one of my kids to pick it up or my husband comes to the rescue.
There are limited occasions I will decide to utilize my precious energy to pick an item up, and that’s only if enough items have accumulated on the floor to occupy me long enough to stay down there. Because honestly, I’m not sure how long it’ll be before I can get back up.
If I do find myself stuck on the ground, I’ve mastered the skill of entertaining my children while down there. Everything can be done on the ground. Reading, puzzles, coloring. I can even pretend to chase them by just scooting around in circles and stretching my arms out trying to grab them while they run around me. Lazy parenting? I call it genius.
Putting my whining aside, I am beyond blessed and would never take our lives for granted. God has given me the greatest gift of what will soon be three healthy children and I couldn’t be happier.
Now with that said, I can’t hide my excitement over the thought of this baby exiting my body. Not much will change about my attitude or look, but at least I’ll have my body back and can figure out our new normal. And most importantly I’ll be re-acquainted with my old friend – wine – to help get me through.
©2017 Ashleigh Wilkening, as originally published on Scary Mommy.