One of my best friends is seven months pregnant, and when I’m not
being genuinely excited for her and all things new motherhood and new baby, I’m
staring at her belly wondering how to keep the real deal about what her next
few months are going to look like to myself. I’m also chanting to myself NEVER
AGAIN. NEVER. AGAIN.
The good news is that “never again” will undoubtedly be the case,
chant or no chant. I’m way past baby
making prime, I have two kids already and I am currently separated. I look at
pregnant women now and think how the hell did I do that? Supporting a friend through her first
pregnancy makes the whole thing look so overwhelming. And
while I had the world's easiest pregnancy, there is nothing like those last few
weeks when you are just “so over it already” to quote every single pregnant
friend I’ve ever known. Every mom is
telling her how amazing it all is, but what if I told her the truth, the real
truth, that it only gets harder from here on out?
I loved being pregnant more than anyone I know. Especially the
first time. I felt amazing, was never sick, exercised daily, didn’t get even a little stretch mark and the weight came off without a hitch within six months. I had a pre-planned easy C-section (due to my bilateral hip replacements), and
everything went as smooth as can be. I
was happy and high as a kite postpartum, in love with my new baby and my new mom
life, and everything was awesome. The
second pregnancy was equally drama free, but I was a little more over it, a lot
earlier that time around. I was bigger sooner and more uncomfortable with it, and couldn’t wait to be on the other side. Even for the happy-happy-joy-joy
pregnant mama, there is no denying that carrying a baby, birthing it and
figuring out how to keep the little being alive can be the hardest, scariest
and most challenging thing a woman can do.
Everyone talks about swollen feet, hands and ankles, but no one talks about what the heck is up with the giant vajayjay.
Part of me wants to tell her it’s really going to start to suck
soon, that sleeping becomes almost impossible and that you may wake up with a burst of scars around your boobs that may, or may not go away. Ditto
some lovely varicose veins. Everyone talks about swollen feet, hands and ankles
but no one talks about what the heck is up with the giant vajayjay. The pressure down there becomes so intense
those last few weeks, its feels like the baby might fall out any minute. OK, enough moaning and groaning about the
physical woes, we’re bringing life into world, right? All that stuff is (mostly) temporary. And on the other side will be a beautiful,
bouncing, burping bundle of joy! But even if I was 30, you wouldn’t catch me making another baby.
giant question mark of the birthing process. It’s those first few hours after
delivery: the excitement, awe and shock and the knowledge that this little being is
all yours, and it wants and needs nothing more than your breast warmth and love
to survive—that’s the real doozy. Now
that my kids are older I realize how much I take for granted. Even though they
can run to the fridge and grab a cheese stick as a snack instead of me having to get up and do it, they
are still just as dependent. Their whole existence depends on my providing for
them. And there is no room to mess up. In other words, my dear friend will never
catch a break from here on out. Should I tell her?