I write to you from today for tomorrow, so that I remember wholly your dastardly beautiful ways when I pass some random
peach-tree and lament my own unblossomed self. I write to you in anticipation of being in the sage place some friends have spoke to me from, the "oh I miss being pregnant" mentality. I don't miss you the way I think I do
(sure time heals all wounds but I know I'm forgetting what you have done to me in the past).
Don't get me wrong, I do love the sweet baby murmurs in my belly. The round protrusion of an unnamed mystery below my shirt. The curiosity and kindness of strangers and the sheer nature of the whole experience. There is no question, you are a miracle of life in many ways. This is not a letter to this part of your experience.
This letter is addressed to your dark side. You, with all your keen hope and promise of great things to come, hide your dark side. It gets ignored at dinner parties, forgotten in the Christmas newsletter, and overlooked by the women who have already traversed your great divide
(only to be remembered weeks before any given due date, as they retell the mom-to-be the truths they bore in carrying and birthing their young). I speak of the you hidden in the depths of books only to be discovered after the deed is done. It is also a call to arms against the space erased on the hard drive after the deed has been proportionately blown out of the water by a beautiful new being, now to be known as the first born.
This is for your true victims, the ones with no turning back.
You send the smack down early on and then build from there. We're women, we should be smarter than this but instead we hold out for the "honeymoon stage". I personally have found that you deliver quite well in this department. In fact, the early on is not too hard on me either. So why, you ask, should I complain about the last pesky months? At 9.5 months pregnant, I will tell you.
I hate feeling unable; feeling like I can't lift something over 30 lbs. and thus having to wait for someone to help me do something
(this has always been an issue though). I hate feeling like my uterus is falling out of my vagina or that possibly someone snuck a tiny spoon up there to my offspring so she could dig her way out early; she's certainly trying at this point. I hate feeling neurotic; feeling like I can't eat cold deli meat or sushi because I might digest something that will turn my body or my baby sour. I hate having a glass of wine and feeling that silent Catholic guilt about it, like I'll find out in the future about the mistakes I've made today
(I've come to be more at peace with this though in my second pregnancy and can only imagine the more children a woman has, the more she plays Wine Roulette). I hate feeling full, like a dung beetle; feeling angst towards a stranger parked too close to my car because I can't squeeze in to reach my seat. I hate strangers who say, "you look like you're about to pop" like it's some novel statement I've never heard... and would be something I'm happy to hear. I hate the guttural sounds coming from strange places in my belly because things are so shifted my colon is now "uptown" so to speak. I hate my inability to control my back end as air moves through my body at a swift rate; I wish I could say the same for liquid, but in that department a pea sized amount chimes each new hour.
Mostly I hate the waddle; the slow movement that makes me feel old and heavy rather than young and athletic. I hate the veins that have become my private battlefield on which we meet
(every mother has her own). I hate their bulbous roundness during the day and the sinking lack of skin elasticity when I lay down and make them disappear at night. I hate that my husband wittingly observed that I currently look like I have a nut sack; and upon further investigation, I completely agree with him. I got "racked" the other day for the first time in my life when miss M ran head first into my lap as I was standing up. I now know truths I never wanted to come to know personally.
The general public has no idea what breathes fire under my skin
(until this letter appears on the web). I have entered a space where I'm ready to bump chests with anyone thoughtlessly idiotic
(and by that I mean not naturally funny people trying to be witty or non-thinkers). I feel the need to educate these people these days; it's a strange thing coming from a non-confrontational patron of life. Perhaps if I end up going rounds with a stranger in the middle of a grocery store, I will remember your manipulative ways and won't need to review this letter at a later date.
I miss my svasana sleeping pose - not needing or wanting the comfort of four pillows to make the night worth it. I miss running and swift movement. I miss chasing my daughter thoughtlessly and not worrying about pulling a ligament. I miss shorts or skirts, or clothes that don't go down to the ankles so I don't scare small children or adults with my blue leg.
There is really nothing left to say
(now that I've said nut sack on the blog). I know we are parting ways soon. I know I will reap the benefits of this long run called pregnancy and look back fondly because the little soul that is now forming will be amazing in my eyes. But I will not date you again pregnancy; go find some other girl to be with.
Sincerely
(and not just the ramblings of a VERY pregnant woman),
A
