Here's a moment of honesty, friends: I really don't like being pregnant. At. All.
Twin pregnancy? Singleton pregnancy? It all pretty much ranks right up there with getting a cavity filled.
I'm glad I've figured that out, actually. I think it gives me a lot of grace for other friends of mine who struggle with being pregnant too. It seems like it's often implied, or maybe just directly communicated to women that they're supposed to love every single glowing moment of carrying a life in their wombs. And, Heaven forbid, we utter something about not loving one of the many not-so-glowy moments, of our heads hanging over the toilet, or battling the ugliness of depression, or the in-opportune time when we don't make it to the bathroom on time.
If you've seen the movie Steel Magnolias, Olympia Dukakis' character, that sassy southerner, Clairee says:
Well, you know what they say: if you don't have anything nice say about anybody, come sit by me!
I feel like I'm Clairee for pregnant people. You wanna talk about how much it sucks be pregnant and then how the hormonal-aftermath makes you a sweaty, crazy, smelly mess? Come sit by me!
Don't get me wrong, friends. I'm thankful. I'm thankful for the life that's incessantly beating on my bladder. I'm thankful for the life in my belly causing my ass to take up residence in two counties, despite the many squats I attempt in between the contractions that I've had since 15 weeks. That's right----15 weeks! I have the most temperamental uterus on the planet!
Thankful, but if I'm honest, I'd just assume get it all over with already. It's hard to be thankful for this time of largeness and multiple bathroom trips.
[A note about the following picture: I didn't love this movie, in fact the twin pregnancy in here was laughably, eye-rollably, annoyingly unrealistic, but Liz's character here, is pretty funny, because she's a hot-mess the entire time. (I can call her Liz, because my husband's co-worker's wife grew up with her, and calls her Liz, so it's almost like I know her, or something)]
So, I'll tell you about the one thing that makes this all just a little bit better (other than the baby at the end of the road).
Probably the biggest difference for me is that at this stage in the game, I'm still up
With this pregnancy, I've had some generous friends who have lent me some maternity clothes, and I've put the ones that fit to good use. The aforementioned ass-largeness has been a tough pill to swallow. At almost 33 weeks, I currently weigh almost as much as I did when I delivered the twins. It's hard to feel very attractive with those numbers swimming in my head.
So, a couple weeks ago I decided I wanted to have a pair of maternity jeans, and ordered some jeggings from Old Navy. When they arrived, I tried them on, and even though they were, jeggings, afterall----those are leggings that look like jeans for those of you who haven't yet been introduced to a jegging---- I thought they were too tight/small, and I shoved them in the closet.
I did lots of self-talk about how a pair of jeggings, the numbers on the scale, or even the size of my arse don't define me, because I'm a daughter of the King, I'm a loving wife, I'm a good mama, etc. And friends, I know my jegging size has nothing to do with anything truly important, but whew! It's been hard.
So, this morning the girls and I had to hightail it out of the house at 8AM, because someone wanted to see our house (yes, we're still trying to sell our house---and an 8:30 showing---seriously?!), and I got out the jeggings to wear. I tugged and wrestled those suckers on (because really, with jeggings, I think there's a bit of a workout involved in getting them on, at least when you're pregnant, or maybe they really are just too small---if it's the latter, just don't tell me), and you know----they actually looked pretty good, and I felt pretty good. I think I might just be able to make it to the end of this pregnancy.
Thank you, Jesus for jeggings.