Brad and I got into an argument on Saturday morning, as I huffed and puffed to try to reason with him through my rising blood pressure and anger, that making a baby is a lot harder than he would ever know, and how I was ready for her to be out, and he, as nonchalantly as a male reacts, argued, “It’s only nine months.” Seriously? That’s the basis for your argument? Not that I am ranting about the joyous miracle of creating life or the new adventure of mommy-hood, but is he that clueless? Does he not see the transformation that has taken course over the last 9 months and the frustrations it has caused me to no avail? He even rubbed my belly as if I were Buddha about to bestow him luck, and stated, “That thing is the size of a basketball now! Wow!” Great. Thanks for that.
The transition into pregnancy is, how do I put this…overwhelming? Again, let me reiterate that I have had a very, smooth pregnancy. I haven’t been bombarded with the urge to hurl at the smell of foods or lack thereof. I thank my mom’s genes for that one, as she didn’t have morning sickness with either my sister or me. But the strong fatigue, which hits me about 1pm every day like clockwork and floors me like Garfield when he sees a sunbeam; the persistent acid reflux and heartburn that reaches new levels each month as the little one grows and creeps closer and closer to my esophagus, that I swear it will overflow like lava out of a volcano if I can’t control it with popping Tums; the lack of oxygen to my lungs, as I can barely breathe as I walk less than 3 steps around the house or have to stop and catch my breath because it’s too overbearing to simply walk, or rather, waddle at this point; the swelling of my hands and feet, but not to the point of concern, just annoyance where my shoes don’t fit and my wedding ring can’t come off; the urge to pee every hour on the hour because the little one likes to happy dance on my bladder with her feet, her head, her weight; the lack of sleep due to the urge to pee every hour on the hour; no comfortable sleeping position, so even falling asleep in “my chair” for a catnap, I wake up choking on my own spit; nasal passages so congested that Brad tells me they were cutting down the forest, and I thought he was serious; the bouts of forgetfulness and randomness in my thought processes that just don’t connect, as I once was sharp-witted and smart, or thought I was; the random aches and pains all over---ligament pains, stretching, back aches, lower back pain, and the latest, carpel tunnel in both wrists; the overtaking of hormones that eat my emotions alive and are raw on the surface, making me cry, laugh, pissed all in a matter of a 5 minutes; and the constant looking in the mirror, watching these changes rapidly take place in a matter of 9, short months, gaining weight and losing my form and previous self. I keep reminding myself, yes, it is worth it. It is. Really.
However, it’s not a simple “9 months” of transformation, as Brad so graciously puts it. It’s hard. I was already slightly overweight to begin with and my goal this year, if we had not gotten pregnant, was to get on the exercise bandwagon and really work my tail off to a healthier, fitter me. Now, I will have to wait until Baby Schroeder is at least 6 weeks old (more if I have a C-section) before I can take working out more seriously and get myself back into a routine of swimming, Jillian Michaels, P90X, jogging/walking, and hiking with my hot, skinny husband who looks like a flippin’ twig next to his basketball bearing wife.
*Sigh*
I’m not complaining, really, I’m not. But reality is pregnancy is not easy and how people do it more than once, amazes me. Maybe we will do it more than once, too, but for now, I’d just like to manage my time between pursuing my PhD, work, and being a mom and decide if I want more, after I adjust to the first one. It doesn’t help that books like What to Expect…cutely compare the little bundle of cuteness to pieces of fruit. Really? Maybe I’m not the size of a basketball, but perhaps, a “fairly large cantaloupe”, as it states in Week 35. Humph. /:P
I think I’m just over my body being taken over by a living mini me, that stretches in movement across my stomach like an alien out of a science-fiction movie, and just want to be normal again, knowing I will have to work off the little pudge of a tummy yet (shape wear-check). And maybe get a boob job after she sucks them dry (Farrah did on Teen Mom---$4K---maybe after we are out of debt in 3 years?). So, although it is only 9 months, it’s a lifetime of getting me back to me. Selfish, I may be, but I am sure that my whole view will change once she’s here. And that, is five weeks of crazy anticipation, which she just kicked in agreement with. J
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