I am a hot, curvaceous mess.
All women/humans have struggled to feel like themselves in their skin. I refuse to believe those that say they haven’t. That’s cute, but you are all liars. Dirty, dirty liars.
Pregnancy can be a special foray into body image/personal space hell.
(I say this with such love and unwavering devotion, present and future children of mine.)
First, you’ve got 9 (but let’s be honest, really 10) months of your body going haywire. Hair sprouting here or falling out there, ever-generating spit, nasal congestion, bloody gums, headaches, backaches, ligaments-deep-inside-your-body-aches, heartburn, constipation, itchy skin, the joy that is “lightening crotch”. All that peeing, all that tossing and turning. That puffy face; that newly outed belly button. All those words you can’t remember.
This is a cruel, cruel world. A world where things leak without warning. A world where you’ve considered the pros of catheter, if only it means you can sleep and sleep, crowded bladder be damned. A world where you are so nauseous, but also so hungry, but then someone says “chicken” and you think you’ll just go lie down to die. A world where your very humble chest doubles or triples in size, but is too sore even to look at. #BurnAllTheBras
When I was pregnant with Carter or Jack, of course there were points in time when donating my body and mind and hormones to growing a baby got real, real old.
Twins, I think, are the ‘Nam of pregnancies. I’ve seen things. I’ve felt things.
Two things, moving independently inside of me simultaneously, as a matter of fact.
(There are 20 toes inside of me right now. Growing toenails. So let’s not even pretend. There is nothing normal about this.)
Thank you, everyone, for asking how I’ve been. I usually say “tired” or “ehh…” with a long pause and a shrug. The truth: I’ve spent the past four months clinging to the side of my bed, in desperate need of some basic attempt at hygiene, listening to the silky vocals of Bob Ross or a podcast episode of The Splendid Table, hoping to sleep away the weeks.
Don’t feel bad for me. Feel bad for my husband. He made me baked potatoes for every meal for weeks and served them to me in bed without batting an eye.
I thought I had this down — once you’re a mother, you aren’t really your very own person ever again. You split, and part of you lives outside of you, and it’s awe inspiring and wonderful and frustrating. It’s love.
In this pregnancy, more than my insides are growing. I keep finding these very stubborn pockets where it is so, so hard for me to be selfless. It’s been an eye-opener; I’ve got some work to do.
There are some really wonderful, perfect things about pregnancy. I love all of those things. And I love these two things, these babies, so much. Already. Like, heart-bursting-at-the-seams already.
The very most honest truth is that these babes are healthy and the pregnancy is healthy and God is good, all the time — so no matter what (and this is definitely a No Matter What), everything’s gonna be alright.
Especially once I have more of a say over my bowel movements.