Friday, May 9, 2014


I complain about pregnancy a lot for a couple of reasons: 1) I don’t want to be that mom who says, “Pregnancy is wonderful!  This is the MOST MAGICAL TIME!” when it, in fact, is not.  So much of it sucks hairy balls and we mothers do a disservice to other mothers, especially first-time mothers, when we gloss over the terrible parts.  I am sure there are a few women out there who are never sick, never get heartburn or cankles, never have an achy pelvis, never gain weight in their butts, and never develop jowls, but they are few and far between; 2) I am more comfortable with complaining/joking about the bad stuff than I am raving about the good stuff.

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This is the good stuff.


The truth is, though, that when Jamie was about 18 months old, I started thinking to myself, “I can’t imagine not being pregnant ever again.”  I love the feeling of being kicked from the inside.  Those little jabs and the big rolls and the times the baby has hiccups are a nice reminder that I am growing the next member of our family.  I have a buddy with me, constantly, and I’m loving it.  He dictates what and how much I eat, he has instituted a strict “no alcohol/no sushi/no lunch meat” policy, he keeps me from sleep, and he reminds me multiple times a day that he is coming and is going to change our lives forever.  As much as I hate watching my butt grow, I love watching my belly grow, and because I have been through this before, I know that my belly is still in the small and cute stage – pretty soon, my belly will be too big for even size L maternity shirts.  I love the sense of anticipation – choosing a name, wondering how our new little guy will look, stocking up on baby essentials and getting baby gifts.  Those parts are truly wonderful.

And then!  Then!  We get to have a baby.  A baby who will cry, and keep me up all night, and cause me grief and worry about every little thing, from eating to pooping to holding his head up to countless questions of “is this normal?” for years and years and years.  And it is so amazing and worth every second of misery from pregnancy and beyond.


At least I’m pretty sure that’s what my parents would say about me.


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It was especially worth it for my parents because now they get these two goobers as grandsons.  Grandsons who WORSHIP their grandparents.


My boys don’t know what Mother’s Day means, and they might not understand until they have kids of their own, but I know.  And I celebrate my little wonders, my treasures, my tornados of love.  Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there!  (Especially my mom, whom I love so much it hurts sometimes, and who, I know, sacrificed so much for me.  Thanks, mom.)


 photo 2 (35) 

I said “goodbye” to the days of steady, in-focus photos long ago.

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