When I first got pregnant, I had a vision of how pregnancy would progress. There would be a perfectly round baby bump, a radiant glow and gentle smile as I frequently caressed said bump, perhaps a flowing wardrobe with a Stevie Nicks feel. We would prepare a splendid nursery. I would do yoga and eat healthy foods and pose for artsy black-and-white photos of my fertile, feminine bump.
The reality? Has been pretty much none of the above. Granted, I’m not the usual case because chronic illness has me barely functional even when I’m not building life inside my abdomen. But my actual pregnancy experience has not related in any way to that idealized picture of soon-to-be-motherhood.
First came the exhaustion. I barely made it out of bed for the first three months. The bump did start right away, but it resembled the aftereffects of a really big meal more than anything related to pregnancy. Emotionally, the bump might as well have been meal-related. Wallaby was not exactly planned, and though she’s also not unwelcome, our initial reaction was less “At last, an answer to our prayers!” and more “Well, there goes life as we know it….”
The second trimester brought more energy, but it also brought pain. Lots and lots of pain — backaches from straining my scoliosis, nerve pain in very sensitive places, a terrible bladder condition that kicks in when I lie down. And of course the contractions I’ve had every day since Month 6. The contractions put me on bedrest, where I watched any remaining independence drain away. And all those well-meaning people who assure us nothing will matter once we met our precious little jewel? All I could think was how that “jewel” will need constant attention, feedings, diaper changes … and wonder how my barely-functional self can possibly keep up.
Yoga? Healthy eating? Out the window. I’ve broken every food prohibition in the pregnancy books, usually because it was just so much easier than figuring out what else to eat. I’ve survived for months off peanut butter sandwiches, brownies, and ice cream. (Thank heavens for prenatal vitamins!) We never took pregnancy classes and have only the barest idea how to care for a newborn. (That’s why they invented Google, right?!?) A friend offered to host a baby shower — an offer that was all the more touching because she has one of the busiest jobs imaginable. And I called it off because I just didn’t feel up to the social responsibility.
Nesting instinct? Never had it. Nursery? We have none. Thankfully friends with children have been incredibly generous in sharing their hand-me-downs, lest Wallaby need to make do with our own actual purchases — a t-shirt, some basic feeding and diapering supplies, and a stroller. (Though I guess we could at least stroll her around in a t-shirt and diaper?) Wallaby will be lucky if we even manage a name for her before the time comes, and that doesn’t require a shopping trip!
Now that the end is nigh, the pressures of a huge belly has made my illness worse to the point where I can barely stand up. We may have to take the baby a few weeks early if things get to the point where I can’t take it any longer. And while I’ve now progressed past my initial, uncontrollable tears whenever I hit the “labor and birth” chapter of the pregnancy books, I can’t exactly say I’m feeling confident about the process.
At least, as Wallaby has gotten more active (and, for some reason, since we learned she has hair!), she now feels more like a precious child and less like a theoretical construct. But my approach to the “you’ll-immediately-feel-a-love-like-no-other-and-it-will-ALL-be-worth-it” reassurances still remains a solid “we’ll see.”
And why am I sharing this with you all? Frankly, I’m not sure. Pregnancy is everywhere right now, and there’s a certain idealized (some would say fetishized) picture that comes with it (and I don’t just mean those artsy belly photos). And motherhood is so closely tied to womanhood that it’s hard not to feel “less” or “wrong” if your experience doesn’t live up to the ideal. So I just wanted to put this out there. I believe our child will be healthy and strong, I believe we will love her more than anything else, and I pray that we will raise her well. But I was the worst pregnant lady ever*. And that’s just going to have to be good enough.
* Sadly, I do know this isn’t technically true…. SIL practiced as an OB, and unfortunately there were patients she had to implore to “at least try and smoke a little less crack till the baby arrives.”
