The previous post probably made me sound vaguely suicidal, so I thought I’d post another update, just to reassure the three people who read this that I’m not, in fact, miserable and depressed. And give a little shout out and thank God for my cousin Becky and aunt Aimee, who spent the past four hours with me at the mall, letting me complain and moan and vent so that when I finally came home, I could walk in the house and greet my family with a smile.
I’m a good mother. I know that. I love my kids and really honestly do my level best to raise them right. To teach them morals and self discipline and kindness and magic and love and laughter. And if we all yell a lot at each other – well, at least they’ll never feel as though they couldn’t truly express how they feel. If nothing else, we express. And they’re lucky to have me – I’m always up for a hug, I’m always good for a story, I’m pretty laid back about most things, and I always let them crawl into bed with me in the middle of the night. I’m even a half way decent cook. Kind of.
And just because they fight – this doesn’t mean that they truly hate each other. They love each other with as much passion as they detest each other, and I should take comfort in that. Put them in an unfamiliar setting and they become each other’s best friend. Even today – by the time they were done screaming at each other, they were begging to sit next to each other, and most upset that Marc had separated them into two different rooms.
This has been a miserable pregnancy. There. I’ve said it. I wanted to get pregnant, and can’t wait to see my baby girl. I remember feeling magical in the beginning and then it all got lost under the nausea, the vomiting, the itching, the sciatic pain, the braxton hicks contractions, the hormonal surges and now just the sheer exhaustion of being so big and bulky and awkward and not feeling like myself. I always wanted to be one of those women who said that they LOVED being pregnant, but the truth is that I love it a little and mostly just like the baby at the end of it. I love that I can get pregnant easily and love that I only had the one miscarriage. I never lose sight of how lucky I am to be able to get and sustain a pregnancy. But really – this pregnancy has been just crappy most of the time. It’s hard on me, it’s hard on the kids and it’s hard on Marc. I know it’s worth it – I know that this is such a wanted and loved baby – but man, if I could fast forward to after delivey, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
I can’t wait to be me again. I can’t wait to bounce up out of bed, be able to spend the whole day out walking and playing with the kids, to be able to bend down and pick up stuff off the floor. I can’t wait to stop crying – I feel like I’ve cried more in the past couple of months than in the two years prior. I just want to have my baby and be me, not pregnant, again.
But – since that’s not going to happen for another six weeks or so… I’ve got to chill out and relax a little more. All this stress is not good for the baby – who, if prenatal influence has any effect at all on her, could come out raging furious. I need to cultivate an air of peace. Of contentment. I have much, much to be happy about. I have beautiful, brilliant children. I have an adorable apartment in a nice neighborhood, close to parks and the library. I have a husband who loves me, loves me, loves me. I have a healthy pregnancy with a baby who’s growing right on target and everything ready and waiting for her when she arrives. I have a mother who’s fabulous, aunts and cousins and sisters and friends who want all the best for me. I’m am the picture of serenity and calm. I just need to somehow maintain that until this baby comes out.
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