I walked out to the kitchen the other morning. Because that’s where I’d left my bra the night before. I picked up my bra from the counter. As I acquired said bra, I said to my husband, “Signs of a crazy night, huh?”.
I am nearing the point in this pregnancy where it’s getting hard to put my shoes on. Or pick up toys. Or scrub the kitchen floor with anything that does not possess a two foot pole, like a Swiffer. This is a first for me. In my previous pregnancies, I didn’t feel like my torso area was so trunk-like. In fact, I can recall being down on my hands and knees post a rockin’ New Year’s party, scrubbing up spilled sips {just in case your mind went somewhere else} at 3 am while 32 weeks pregnant with Barrett. I do not forsee the same fate for this time around. I feel like my belly shmooshes so much into the business above the belly that I am nearly physically incapable of bending in half.
As we’ve been down this road a few times now, I find myself thinking about the inner laughter my husby has to have when seeing me get ready in the morning. And what he thinks about all of this crazy babymaking business. But he doesn’t say a word. Because he’s a smart man. And he knows that one little joke about the effort it takes to sock my feet, will likely elicit a snarky reaction at this point in the gestation process. And while although my bark may be bigger than my bite, there’s a good bit of snark that manifests inside this mama as a fetus takes form.
As completely crazytown as it can be as a woman to experience a human life forming inside of you, I have to believe that from a man’s perspective, pregnancy is completely outrageous.
I will go on the record, right here, right now and state that I believe for the most part, life as we know it changes less for a dad than it does for a momma when a babe enters your brood. Especially with the first one. That may not be the case in your world but in our house, there is naturally less sleep to be had for me once the baby comes home because I possess the food source. Which means that the newbie is on mama like white on rice. And even given the fact that he will keep the other two in line while I am a walking, breathing breastaurant, I still think it’s more change for mama {not that it’s a contest… ahem.}. But all of that aside, I think there have to be many times from conception to well past post-partum that my husband questions where his former partner has gone, what, in the samhill, is going on with my feminine form, and why, the carefree, spastic woman he fell in love with has turned into an emotional raving lunatic. And I don’t blame him one bit.
Let me start off by saying, I am one of the few people I know who actually really likes pregnancy. I have been pretty forthcoming about this. That aside, today, I want to carve out a moment to acknowledge the wild and crazy ride that occurs once the bun is bakin’ in the oven. This is not a post to tell you to not have kids. This is not a post to serve as birth control. But it’s the cold. hard. facts. So, if you do not appreciate candor about all things related to pregnancy, realness about the biological happenings or a little dose of Ashli, then stop reading now.
Or now.
Or now.
Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
Stop.
Now.
To begin, there is a period of time where I go completely insane after seeing the plus sign on the pee stick. Insane. There really is no other word. My brother once stated that he thinks a woman’s pregnancy symptoms start immediately after she sees the positive sign. Welp. This time, I truly outdid myself to resemble that remark as I was completely anxiety-ridden and obsessed about carrying the pregnancy past the 12 week mark.
But no matter the pregnancy, in the first trimester alone, I become irritable.
Exhausted.
Begin complaining that I have nothing to wear.
Complain that my esophagus feels as though it’s been laced with rubbing alcohol.
Believe that bathroom time is a contact sport that, at times, may involve animal sounds and sweating.
Break out with cystic acne and/or other foreign rashes.
In some cases barf every hour of the day.
In others, complain that I can’t puke and instead, crab about constantly feeling like I’m on a boat in the middle of the ocean.
And this time around, I dealt with other women being mad because I didn’t get the pukies or the nausea.
There are food cravings. There are food aversions. There are off-limit foods.
In my current prengancy, I’ve groaned and complained about the fact that it feels like my round ligaments are literally being torn to shreds.
And I morph into a hibernating creature that doesn’t want to cuddle or canoodle and would prefer not be touched {because, after all, that is how this happened}.
Oh, yes, and lest we not forget that I remind my sensitive, caring, dutiful husband 1-900 times a day {in my most loving, gentle and completely-without-malcontent manner} that he has no idea what I’m going through {because really, he doesn’t and he won’t, but that’s beside the fact. ahem.}.
That entire thing. All starting with the positive sign on the pee stick {and sometimes, even before}. Until week 12-14. What a blissful entry into parenthood, right?
Welcome. to. the. freak. show.
And through all of that, this time around, I was trying to remember to be very thankful that we get to do this. No pressure, right?
Two words that I think my husband must have thought, often: Freaking Fantastic.
But we’re not done there… are we friends? Nope. Even once the blissfulness of the second trimester sets in {because there really is a good bit of bliss, IMO}, there begins the part where the baby starts moving so the outside world can feel and even see it. And at times, it likely appears to my husby that a little alien is burrowing around in the belly. Seriously… miraculous once you’ve been there but a little bit like sci-fi-esque if we’re being honest. And with all of the physical changes occuring, there’s a chance that you enter the enchanting kingdom of hemorrhoids. Or maybe the plumbing takes a whole different turn. Some women start to see varicose or spider veins. And in the extreme, awful, scenarios, vomiting continues. And maybe, hair begins growing down the belly, or back, or face, or neck. Oooh, and there’s cervical mucous {I WARNED you}. All paired with complaints, daily, that the enormous boobs that are now busting from the bra are too much for mama. Or that the ta-tas are tender. Or at some point, they begin to actually produce a liquid substance. Perhaps there is restless leg syndrome that leads to sleepless nights. And finally, unless your leading lady can juxtapose her body into just the right position, there’s a possibility of her peeing her pants from an unexpected sneeze. And yet we women talk about how beautiful it all is. That’s all a bit of mixed messaging, right? Dads to be have to scratch their heads a bit… right?
And then, finally, after nearly three quarters of a year… after spending copious hours on honey-do’s and as weekend warriors on a nursery, a name list, sterilizing bottle after bottle and sleeping with a bed hog … After realizing as he reads the nicely labeled organization from nesting, that the word NIPPLES has taken on a whole different meaning… after heeding doctor’s orders that mom’s gotta take it easy and heading up most of the cooking and the majority of the child-rearing… after getting through what seems like the loooong gestational journey: It is time. It is time for the big show.
The Big Show, the Grand Reveal, the delivery stuff. Where, outside of medical staff, my husband and I possess the only real tickets to be had. And for him, it’s a front row seat, whether he really wants to see the show or not. And it is an event. For me, the hubs pretty much saw me crying for anywhere from 7 to 20 hours, and then shaking uncontrollably, and then making jokes. But I have heard that some women yell, scream and claw {no joke. claw.}. And they should, right? Because labor is freaking hard. That’s why it’s called labor and not fun times. And oh yes…the heavy breathing…such an ironic twist to remind the hubs about how we got here in the first place. And then at the end of labor, during the curtain call, that man who made this baby with me, the man that initially had interest in me because he thought I looked cute in a pink v-neck t-shirt at a party 10+ years ago and probably never at that point considered someday seeing me push a person out of my lady parts {three times over}, is expected to watch, coach and hold my hand {because, NEWSFLASH, he absolutely did signed up for this}. And then, as mom pushes with everything she’s got, until she’s blue in the face, he watches as the little cherub makes his or her way through the tunnel of terror and out into the real world. And as if that wasn’t enough, in an added feature, he gets to see that there’s a bonus delivery after the baby. Following that situation, there’s stitching and suturing of all of the stuff. And all of that is assuming that the delivery goes according to plan.
Adding all of that up… adding up 9+ months of the mother of your child transforming in front of your very eyes with the delivery… makes me pretty impressed that you don’t see more partners planning escape routes from the hospital room. Because truly, all in all, it’s one. big. scene.
Afterward, the daddy goes home with a very tired, hormonal wife who may be using what he used to consider funbags for feeding. Or he spends 12 hours a day with his hands soaped up on a totally different type of nipple. And this woman who has just pushed out his peanut, may have become a completely unglued post-partum mess, will likely lose her shit on him eight hundred and sixty-three times in a six-week span and is definitely well out-of-commission for a fair amount of time. She is donning a pad that could save her from drowning, covets a squirt bottle and numbing spray {Best. Invention. Ever} and is galavanting around in gauze undergarments and bras with flaps that are much less interesting than any of Victoria’s other secrets. There’s drainage. There’s bleeding. There’s discharge {as real as it gets, folks}. And this is all assuming she didn’t have to have her stomach cut open to get the babe born… which I cannot even begin to write about. Add with all that biz, the newest parfum de toilette she’s sporting, is a sweet marriage of buttered-popcorn baby poo and regurgitated breastmilk. I mean, wow. Just wow.
And then. And THEN. Then, eventually, both parties who did this on the first go round… those people, want to do it all over again.
When you lay all of the evidence out in front of you, it’s all completely coo coo for cocoa puffs. Yet somehow it manages to be really freaking amazing, doesn’t it? And unlike anything else in life.
So when I want to complain, for the kajillionth time, that right now, I am constantly choking back firey puke. Or that my boobs, sometimes, make it hard to breathe. That I cannot possibly wear this over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder for one more second. And I realize that I will once again, soon, depend on Depends. It is in those times that I am reminded that if I stop and take a literal look at the miracle of life, from conception to childbirth, I have to remind myself what this is all for and count myself fortunate to not be doing this alone. Because although a whole lot of this post may focus on what a woman goes through…at least we get the chance to actually experience and live every part. While our better halfs are always seen as supporting cast members.
So maybe… just maybe… take a moment to give your partner in crime a shout out and a high five or maybe even a medal … for sticking with you. For being present. For loving your baby. And for even continue to like you in all your mothering glory. Because while plenty can and do go it alone, I appreciate having someone who will ride this crazy train with me. And in fact, I believe, somehow love me even more because of it.
You might also like
