There are women who desperately want to get pregnant, grow a tiny human inside of them, and raise that new person to the best of their ability… and cannot. There are women who have had multiple miscarriages and may never have a viable pregnancy. There are women who always assumed they’d have a loving partner and have several biological children with said partner and the clock ran out.
My heart goes out to them.
My miscarriage last August was a profound heartbreak, second only to losing my mom suddenly when I was 14. I was extremely lucky to a) get pregnant at all, b) get pregnant so quickly, c) get pregnant again so quickly, and d) be expecting my baby girl less than a year later, in just about two weeks.
All that said, I hate being pregnant.
I was never one of those women who thought pregnant women were “cute” or “beautiful” or “earth goddesssy.” I always felt sorry for them. The waddle. The distorted body. The shitty clothes. The sweating.
And now, as a pregnant woman, I really hate it.
I hated it in the first trimester when I was so tired I couldn’t see straight, when I had full-on conversations with my husband that I’d never remember and went stumbling into work half asleep and, of course, given the miscarriage, couldn’t tell anyone what I was going through. It was similar to when I had mono in college but instead of college, I was working in an office for 9-10 hours each day. I didn’t entirely hate the second trimester, when I got fantastic clothes (which, of course, no longer fit), I was still performing, and didn’t look like a fat fuck yet. And I hate it so much more now – my freshly fat face, my swollen feet, my painful, now-ringless hands, averaging 3.5 hours of sleep a night, the baby’s kicks which are no longer cute but quite painful and sometimes frightening, the stares from strangers, the judgment from strangers (“You’re having a boy.” No, I’m not. “If you say so.”), dropping every single thing I pick up, taking the subway and watching men make eye contact with me and then close their eyes in a fake nap to avoid giving up their seats, the random bouts of crying for no reason, the constant doctor appointments, and my brother reminding me of how old I will be by the time my kid is in high school.
I desperately miss the following:
Good old missionary sex. Any kind of penetrative sex, really. (Oh really? You were able to have sex to induce labor and your baby floated out of your freshly orgasmed nethers? How nice for you!)
Orgasms. They just feel too weird now and not entirely pleasant.
My flat stomach.
My perfectly inny belly button.
Successful hair removal using nothing but a Gillette razor and foam.
Wine. Beer. Champagne. Margaritas. Bloody Marys. Mojitos. Jameson.
My arm muscles. They’re apparently still there, just under a layer of blubber.
Hating sweets. For real. Desserts never did it for me. Now. Ugh. They’ve certainly contributed to my 40+ pound weight gain.
Being able to see my vagina.
My clothes. My favorite Pearl Jam t-shirt. My favorite AYR jeans.
My shoes – oh, how I’d kill to wear my cute, comfy Banana Republic wedge sandals right now to offset my fatness.
Performing. Yes, some stand-up comics do perform up until their due date and even after their due date has passed. My last show was April 30 because if I, in my third trimester, had to sit through yet another open mic with some 23-year-old boys talking about rape, Tinder, weed, and porn, I would likely be arrested for attempted murder of said 23-year-olds.
And! Let’s not forget that I’m two weeks shy of my due date when every woman in Manhattan under the age of 35 has ceased wearing actual clothing because, you know, summer.
If you tell someone with kids any one of these things, you will receive one of the responses below. FYI – not ONE of these has made me like pregnancy or made any of the horrors of pregnancy any easier. Why ask me how I’m feeling if you’re just going to try to make me feel better with such nonsense? A better, kinder response would be “Yep, third trimester sucks a big dick. I remember it well. I’m sorry. I have cheese fries in my purse. Let me give them to you.”
I recognize that these folks mean well and are vocalizing these nice things from a place of experience while I am simultaneously convinced that actually having a baby wipes away all the nasty memories of pregnancy.
- “You’re going to be such a great mom!” (Fuck you – on what are you basing this? That I’m a nice person who you seem to think has nurturing tendencies? You clearly have forgotten that I’m socially awkward and more than capable of screwing up a tiny person. Also, how is this comment remotely relevant to pregnancy? You can be a fantastic mom without ever getting pregnant.)
- “She’ll be worth it”. (Fuck you, too – she’s not here yet and sleepless nights and fatness and hormones are and apparently, two out of those three things will continue after she’s here so your comment is pointless as well).
- “It’ll all be over soon and will be a distant memory.” (see #2).
- “You’ll be thin again once you start breastfeeding.” (Assuming I can breastfeed! Not every woman can. I’ve always loved my breasts and breastfeeding will inevitably destroy my once-perky C plus/D minuses. You do know that there are support groups for women who breastfeed, right? That’s how potentially shitty it is to attempt to feed and bond with your baby.)
- “Once you have her, you’ll want three more!” (Fuck you the hardest. This is usually in response to me saying “oh, hell no” when some idiot asks “Do you think you’ll have another baby?” which is the most inane question one can ask a pregnant woman on the cusp of having her first baby. I’m turning 40 fucking years old in September, I live in the most expensive city in the country and I work 50 hours a week. How many babies do you want me to have, you asshole?)
I’m really tired. I woke up at 3:30am. I can’t get back to sleep. My hands, feet, hips, legs, back and neck hurt. The sun will be up soon. Where’s the peanut butter?