This probably sounds bad, but I’m so done with being pregnant. I feel like I’m supposed to love this time—that I should be bathing everyone I’m around in my maternal glow— laughing in slow motion while my fingertips caress the gentle slope of my belly and my luxurious copper locks of hair fly gently on the perfectly-calibrated wind. I feel like I’m supposed to be this walking symbol of life and motherhood and all that is virtuous and right and fertile in the world. Like everything around me should be smooth and soft and set in sepia tones. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to be that way. But if you think you see my maternal glow, I assure you that it is in fact the three rosy patches of acne that I’ve had since week four. If you think my hair is glossier, you might be right— the boys have been sick, so it’s not unlikely that their boogers have added to my sheen. And there’s nothing gentle or sloping about my belly—this thing is large and in charge.
I know this time in my life will be over soon enough and I won’t give these limitations another thought, but I’m so ready to run and play with the boys without hurting, and to throw a ball as hard as I can without it twisting my ab muscles in knots. To walk without my back hurting. To lift the boys up. To be able to walk up three flights of stairs at a normal pace instead of at the pace of a small, distracted, crippled snail. To not have to pee every couple minutes or feel like I’ll pass out if I don’t eat every hour. All of those things will fade to grey. But for now they are bolded and in all CAPS and right in my face. A lot like the current state of my maternal bossoms.
I feel like such a fussy baby when I read what I’ve written, but it also feels good to say it. I know that when I see little Peapod’s face and hold his tiny body it will all be worth it, but right now it just feels like it’s taking forever and I miss my other body. Also, did I mention that I think I’m just about as heavy at 22 weeks as I was with the boys at this time? My body seriously needs to chill out. It’s not a competition, and there is only one human in there this time. Get over yourself. Everyone knows you can carry twins. You don’t have to try to do it again. I do not want to give birth to a 13 pounder—which is about what the boys weighed combined.
Okay, I’m done whining. Besides, I have to go pee.
|This is me and my maternal glow holding up the toaster. |
This is, however, from when I was 30 weeks pregnant with the boys.
I noticed that I don't have pictures of myself from this time...