It starts with complaining (what else is new) but ends with promises of sunshine.

Pregnancy is a beast.  With claws.  It sinks these claws deep into my psyche and keeps me from being happy all the time.

 

I think I was happier the first time around because I was in constant contact with loads of people.  I participated in at least one evening community event per week and there were always people wandering through my office.  Now I work with four boys.  My social life consists of Rotary, which is mostly male, and MOPS, which is a lot of women who have done/do pregnancy and parenting better than I do (don’t believe me?  I should show you photos of how small most of these women are.  And how satisfied their children seem to be.  And the blank looks I get when I mention Charles’ problems with sleeping until he was almost 2 years old or his epic tantrums over NOTHING AT ALL that I can’t even stop with a glass of cold water to the face).

 

There’s just something about working with the public that year that kept me feeling great.  Maybe it was this:

 

“Wow!  You look so great!  When are you due again?”

“Gosh, they didn’t have nearly such adorable maternity clothes when I was pregnant 10/20/30 years ago!  You look darling!”

“Aww, I just love the way a pregnant woman looks.  You never realize it when you are pregnant yourself, but pregnant women really do glow!  How exciting!”

 

So, a lack of compliments and positive comments plague me here. 

 

And that whole thing about buying an entirely new wardrobe just sucks.  I mean, when you already own jeans, you don’t have to think about what size they are, you just put them on and they fit and it’s great.  Or they don’t fit, and that’s not great, so you diet a bit and go to the gym and then they fit again.  I thought I would have plenty of maternity clothes to last me this time that I wouldn’t have to shop much.  But nooooo.  Not only are the seasons different from when I was pregnant with Charles, but I am discovering more and more items that used  to be in my maternity box but that disappeared during one of the many times it was loaned out to others.  For instance, I know I had some jean shorts and some other warm-weather casual shirts in there, but they’re gone now.  Which means it’s time to go shopping.  Which will suck.

 

I guess I am just one of those people who gets fat when they are pregnant, but it sure isn’t any fun.  I hate the look of my thighs, upper arms, back fat.  I worry that I won’t be able to lose it after baby.  I worry that my husband will never find me attractive again.  I worry that part of the reason people want me involved in anything is because I am was thin and dressed well.  I worry that I’ll have to shop for new, larger sizes.

 

This pregnancy is also a beast because it really messes with what I am able to do around the house and especially with Charles.  The boy is more clingy than ever, potentially because he understands on some level that his life is about to irrevocably and drastically change.  And by clingy, I don’t mean that he won’t go do fun things like play at the park all alone or whatever (not alone-alone, but with me hanging out many yards away chilling with a book).  I mean that when we are at home, he wants to be sitting on me, climbing on me, touching me ALL THE TIME.  And I just can’t anymore.

 

I can’t pick him up and hold him while he falls asleep – he hasn’t needed this in months and months, but now it seems some sort of necessity, which means that instead of soothing him when I sit by his bed and hold his hand, it drives him into an insane fury of “Uuuuuup, mommy!” complete with snot streaming down his face and alligator tears.  So, instead, I rely on Tony to do the majority of the bedtime routine, which seems like an unfair burden on him.  After all, why should he have to come home after a LOOONG day at work and then immediately care for Charles’ every need while I absent myself to avoid a meltdown? 

 

Then again, I have usually had my fill of Charles and his whining for Up! or one more tractor story or one more showing of Cookie Monster on YouTube or just him insisting on being lovey and getting rocked while I am trying to eat dinner by the time Tony gets home.  Which is a horrible thing to say because I love my son and I want to love on him, but sometimes it’s just too much, you know?  And sometimes, mom has to go to the bathroom and it is really impossible to pull down full-panel maternity pants with a toddler hanging off of my shoulders.  And other times, mom just can’t physically hold onto the 38-pounder any longer.  Which only makes said 38-pounder more upset and then makes mom want to cry because she can’t take care of her baby.

 

Hormones.  Damn hormones.  The only thing they seem to be good for is nesting.  I think I’ll buy pansies this weekend, lots of them, for the front yard.  And seeds to start my tomatoes inside.

 

Hopefully, a dose of sun will do me good, as Charles and I head to Phoenix next week to hang out with a dear friend for a long weekend.  It will be Charles’ first bus ride (airport shuttle from Burlington) and first airplane ride.  I am looking forward to having lunch in SeaTac in that large pavilion where you can watch the airplanes taxi on the runway.  Hopefully, it won’t add too much to my overall stress level and the three hour flight will go smoothly.  I need to stock up on snacks!