I’ve always wanted to be one of those glowing pregnant ladies. You know, the stereotype: radiant, natural, peaceful. Never wears shoes and somehow magically found a range of flowing lacey maxidresses in her wardrobe. Smiles a lot and rubs her belly like it’s not just plain weird. Eats salad and fruit all day long and laughs at the idea of a caffeinated beverage because expectant mothers simply run on sunshine and love.
That’s what I’d like to be.
What I am, however, is this giant, floppy whale-mum with no chill what so ever. I have gained a bazillion kilograms and love carbs like the world is ending. I am hormonal and cranky as heck. The idea of not being allowed a coffee in the morning makes me cry. I hold my belly because ugh, how did I ever get so giant so fast?! I am barefoot because putting shoes on is a hassle, and I don’t even know what in my wardrobe fits me anymore.
I would happily sleep until May when this whole ghastly ordeal is over.
Truth is, I actually dislike being pregnant. A lot. This is my fouth time sacrificing my body to grow a tiny person, and quite frankly I’m done. I’ve whined and moaned my way through fourty weeks of each one, and then promptly forget what a ghastly experience that was. Every time. Seriously, how does that not stick the second time around?
I understand not everyone has this experience, and I’m very happy for the glowing mamas out there. I’m envious, even. I want to be you. Go and wear that pretty dress and rub that belly weirdly.
I, on the other hand, am going to hang out at home eating cookies, counting down every second until the the beautiful bloodbath of childbirth is due.