Sometimes, I hate being pregnant.

We’re almost at the 12-week mark. Next week I go for a nuchal translucency screening and our next OB appointment, and I’m still nervous but now more cautiously optimistic that everything is still going well. I feel safe enough in this pregnancy to add The Bump to my daily reading, and even to put some things in a baby registry on Amazon.

Still, sometimes I hate being pregnant.

I don’t hate carrying our child. I don’t ever wish for a moment that this wouldn’t have happened. In fact, after the issues my mom had trying to get pregnant with my brother and me, I consider myself to be immeasurably fortunate that we conceived without any issues at all – really, without even “trying”.

Still, sometimes I really hate being pregnant.

I hate that I’m so tired I can barely drag myself out of bed…that I yawn through my entire day at work…that once home again I usually lack the strength to even make dinner or tidy up before I’m yearning for my bed. I hate that by 7:30 or 8:00 pm I’m down for the count.

I hate morning sickness, and the general all-day unpredictability of nausea and if/when it will hit. Some days it’s little more than a nagging feeling, while others (like this morning) I’m worshiping at the porcelain throne before I’ve had a chance to even grab my glasses off the nightstand. Foods that seem okay will make me sick after three bites, while others I miss dearly are completely off limits. (I get sick just thinking of – or typing the word – “bacon” [gag].)

I hate (okay, more “dislike”) crying at every. little. thing. Have you seen the Carter’s commercial with the little girl getting ready to start school, where she narrates the last five years of her life with her mom? Yep, gets me every time. The song “You Will Be In My Heart” by Phil Collins? I’m a weeping mess in my car. Don’t get me started on puppies and kittens. The strong, stoic woman I used to be is no more; instead, meet the walking bundle of hormones that wears my clothes and signs my name at the store.

Oh, and the clothes. Even though I’m not really showing yet, I’m growing EVERYWHERE. Mostly the bust, and I was a busty lady before this all started. I’m working my way through my baggier clothes, and by this time next month I wouldn’t be surprised if my entire wardrobe is from the maternity section.

I do love a few things, though.

I love that in less than seven months we will get to meet our beautiful little girl or boy, and this will all have been worth it.

I love that I have a caring and considerate husband, a partner who not only steps in to care for both of us when I just can’t manage but who also lets me know in other ways that he loves and appreciates me when I don’t feel like I deserve it. (Just this morning as I was brushing my teeth he thanked me for “suffering through this so we can have a family.” Kind words really do make a difference.)

I love that there are communities like The Bump where they address these things so expectant mothers like me know we’re not alone. The article Pregnant & Miserable provides a sympathetic look at the not-joy many pregnant women feel, and presents excellent advice not only to get through the worst moments but also to determine when a woman’s feelings are normal and when to ask for professional help.

But there’s one more thing I hate. I hate that in the comments section of such an understanding article, where Bumpies should feel safe sharing their less-than-glowing pregnancy thoughts, other women jump in to tear them down and try to shame them for having COMPLETELY NORMAL EMOTIONS. I get it – if you’ve had a hard time conceiving, gone through IVF, etc., then you may consider every icky feeling to be minimal compared to the sheer elation of finally having that baby you’ve wanted for so long. Where one expectant mother may long for her first post-pregnancy glass (bottle?) of wine, another may be perfectly content to steer clear forever just to see their child’s face. Your feelings are legitimate…for you. My feelings (and those of others who feel as I do) are legitimate for us. Get off your soapbox, stop sipping the haterade, and go back to enjoying your back pains and nausea.

In the meantime, I’m going to sit here and yawn…after I get back from the loo.


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