I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy eight months ago. Ever since his entry into the world, I’ve felt secure, happy and comfortable with my role as a woman and a mother. The previous eight months, however, were a different story. My experience with pregnancy can be summed up in one word: rough. And it’s rough for me to say that. Pregnancy is, by far, the most amazing thing in the world and I feel incredibly privileged that I was blessed enough to have a healthy pregnancy and baby. But while in the midst of it, a happy camper I was not.
Before I was pregnant, I used to get annoyed, no -- angry -- when pregnant women would complain. I just could NOT comprehend what there was to complain about. I knew that carrying around another human being in your body wasn’t easy. I knew your hormones were working overtime, but I certainly did not understand the extent. I thought it was selfish that women who were about to bring a child into the world would dare complain about their predicament when there are millions of women in the world who can’t get pregnant.
But going through 8 months (luckily my little man knew it was a good idea to come 3 weeks early) of nausea, extreme fatigue, profuse sweating, depression and the daily guessing game of what I’d be able to eat wasn’t exactly pleasant. Add in those lovely last 3 months of swelling, numbness, sciatica, carpal tunnel and the pure joy of getting up 4 – 5 times a night to pee and I was one cranky mama to be.
Was it all worth it? No question. Would I do it all over again? In a heartbeat. But I’m still feeling guilty about how I felt and I don’t have any good memories of it. And I certainly don't have any Kodak memories because if someone took a picture of me (other than at my baby shower), I may have seriously injured them. I looked like what I felt and that was far from pretty.
I’m not exactly sure why I feel the need to share all of this, except that I guess I hope women might gain a little more realistic idea of pregnancy, and know that it truly is different for everyone. And that it’s ok if you don’t feel like a beautiful, glowing feminine goddess who only gains weight in her belly and not an inch elsewhere. I've come to terms with the fact that I wanted to strangle the twenty-something woman in my OB’s office who looked like she could run a marathon in heels, with a smile from ear to ear, at 35 weeks and I could hardly take four steps in a row because the swelling in my lower extremities actually prevented bending at the ankles by that point.
Before I was pregnant, I used to get annoyed, no -- angry -- when pregnant women would complain. I just could NOT comprehend what there was to complain about. I knew that carrying around another human being in your body wasn’t easy. I knew your hormones were working overtime, but I certainly did not understand the extent. I thought it was selfish that women who were about to bring a child into the world would dare complain about their predicament when there are millions of women in the world who can’t get pregnant.
But going through 8 months (luckily my little man knew it was a good idea to come 3 weeks early) of nausea, extreme fatigue, profuse sweating, depression and the daily guessing game of what I’d be able to eat wasn’t exactly pleasant. Add in those lovely last 3 months of swelling, numbness, sciatica, carpal tunnel and the pure joy of getting up 4 – 5 times a night to pee and I was one cranky mama to be.
Was it all worth it? No question. Would I do it all over again? In a heartbeat. But I’m still feeling guilty about how I felt and I don’t have any good memories of it. And I certainly don't have any Kodak memories because if someone took a picture of me (other than at my baby shower), I may have seriously injured them. I looked like what I felt and that was far from pretty.
I’m not exactly sure why I feel the need to share all of this, except that I guess I hope women might gain a little more realistic idea of pregnancy, and know that it truly is different for everyone. And that it’s ok if you don’t feel like a beautiful, glowing feminine goddess who only gains weight in her belly and not an inch elsewhere. I've come to terms with the fact that I wanted to strangle the twenty-something woman in my OB’s office who looked like she could run a marathon in heels, with a smile from ear to ear, at 35 weeks and I could hardly take four steps in a row because the swelling in my lower extremities actually prevented bending at the ankles by that point.
Maybe there should be a support group for those who experience not-the-most-fantastic-pregnancies so that women know that it doesn’t make you any less of a woman or mother if pregnancy wasn’t your favorite thing in the world. It simply doesn’t matter because the child that comes out of your pregnancy will be your most favorite thing in the world. Guaranteed.
