“I gotta tell you, Carol, you’re not selling me on this whole pregnancy thing,” my friend has told me several times recently.
That feeling was probably reinforced this morning when I recounted in graphic detail my humiliating moment at the Skytrain station today, when I spewed a large puddle of vomitus (it sounds less gross when I add an “us” to the “vomit”, don’tcha think?) on the pavement, which everyone had to step around while studiously pretending it wasn’t there (wouldn’t want to embarrass the pregnant girl who splatters our walkways with vomit, would we?).
But for all that, I do actually like being pregnant. I like getting to know my son as he wriggles a little bit less subtly with each day that goes by (Corinne, I’m beginning to feel the snake-sensation you referred to). Some days I find it hard to believe there’s actually a person in there, and other days I feel a gush of affection for him that is hard to explain when my only proof of his existence is a wriggling bag of snakes in my abdomen.
I worry that I’m not doing well enough, though. Not eating well enough (like at lunch, when all I dared eat after the Skytrain Incident was New York Fries poutine, and only half of a small one at that), not playing him enough music, not singing to him enough, not looking at peaceful scenery enough. I don’t want to miss my own pregnancy, and sometimes I worry that my nightmare is coming true.
I really hope that my boss doesn’t extend my contract. As much as it will suck to be out of work three months before I am due, it would be nice to concentrate on resting, feeling peaceful (so the cortisol from my anxiety doesn’t turn him into a stress mess), and nesting (baseboards in the house would be nice, for example). But if he offers me more time, I’ll have to take it. Money is money.
On the other hand, I am strongly hopeful that I will never have the following conversation with my son, overheard on the bus home today:
Boy: “PLEASE can I have lego?”
Mother: “No, that’s why I bought you Lego VIDEO GAMES, so that I wouldn’t have to help you build stuff.”
(because apparently interacting with your son on a project that would teach him creativity and mechanical skills is an undesirable thing. See how much I’m learning?)
Boy: “You don’t have to help me.”
Mother: “Sit down.”
Boy: “YOU ARE BUYING ME LEGO.”