I’ve reached that point again.
I always say I’d rather give birth nine times over a nine-month span than be pregnant. This mantra comes and goes from my conscious thought throughout the first two thirds of a pregnancy. Then I hit the third trimester and the momnesia clears.
O, that’s right. I really, really dislike being pregnant.
You may really, really like it. That’s awesome. I really, really like giving birth and people think I’m crazy for that, so no judgment here.
You may really, really wish you were. That’s hard and I’m deeply sorry. I have no words to soften that pain but I will gladly cry with you if you need that.
I recognize those are very real situations for other women, but I do not find that they invalidate my current one.
I still really, really dislike being pregnant.
At this point, I don’t even care that my pelvis is sore and I get kicked in the cervix on the daily. Physical discomfort is par for the course and whining about it was so two pregnancies ago. This is more than that.
I dislike sobbing once or twice everyday with a 50% rate of even knowing what I’m crying for. I dislike that expression on my poor husband’s face when he looks across the room and sees an enigma standing where his wife once was. I dislike being exhausted and grumpy and anxious and constantly on the verge of a meltdown. I dislike misplacing my sense of humor. I dislike having my defenses torn down and my tender places exposed.
I am running out of coping tactics. Ice cream by the half gallon is only cute for so long, and there is not nearly enough room in our budget to sustain the kind of retail therapy I am currently capable of. Baths are great but redundant, and though I’m an extrovert from birth, I’d now rather hide at home than think of words to string together coherently.
I ‘ve lost myself and I can’t find her in these weeds.
Likely because she’s on furlough and will be back in 10 weeks, give or take.