It took me about six months to get pregnant. We tried for several months, and I’d honestly become fatigued with the process. The waiting. The superfluous tests. The anxiety when I had two separate positives that ended up to be what are called “chemical pregnancies”. I reconciled the fact that maybe I couldn’t conceive and jumped headfirst into a new job.
And, of course, immediately became pregnant.
I spent the first three months at the gig on the verge of vomiting at every turn. My appendage became a carton of saltines. Not personally knowing any of my coworkers was actually a blessing, because they didn’t sniff out my impending fetus. They just thought I really dug empty carbs in a major way. I mean, I do, but. It was overkill.
A friend of mine is currently struggling with conception and has been reading all of my posts on the pregnancy. I’ve spent the majority of the past eight-plus months deep in the snark-zone and generally in a state of tolerant misery. Luckily, she hasn’t been judgey about it, even though she herself hasn’t conceived.
There are times I wonder if I should feel bad about my candid and very public dislike for pregnancy. I’m aware some people cannot conceive, are attempting over and over again and failing, and/or have had truly complicated health issues during their time with child.
As much as I can empathize with other women in that capacity, I still feel obligated to be honest about my experience. Either I was lied to in the past or paid absolutely no attention to what women had to say about the experience of being pregnant. I honestly thought I’d sail right through it. In true Type A fashion, I was arrogant enough to believe I’d overachieve at carrying a fetus, too. Not so much.
I’m tired and huge and every day I step on the scale I weigh more. I ache all over. My ankles have gone AWOL. I hate vegetables, hate working out and hate drinking water. Basically, all of the things that came so easy before in terms of health and self-care are the equivalent of a triathlon in my mind. If I could sit on the couch all day eating peach cobbler and oreos, watching movies from the 80s without consequence, I surely would.
I do not excel at this pregnancy thing. And the worst part about knowing this is that the consequences for sucking at it have a direct impact on a human being that I am suppose to be fucking awesome for.
The universe picks the most poignant ways in which to son the control freaks of the world. But, I digress.
None of my rants, observations and/or self-loathing are meant to deter fellow overachievers from having kids. I’m not subversive to the idea that this process may be easy for some women. For many, I hear it’s a relative breeze. But I’m not one for dotting my i’s with hearts and putting sequins on turds. Overall, this shit sucks.
My advice (especially if you’re over 35) is to wade into the world of fetus-carrying with a realistic expectation of both the physical and mental challenges that await you. It isn’t easy, but after a gander at the Instagram feeds of all my friends with new babies, I can tell it’s well worth it.