she's just sayin'

I was catching up with a colleague recently, a woman who I don’t get to spend enough time with, but fortunately she’s that kind of friendly person you can get right back in sync with no matter how much time has passed. She asked how the pregnancy was going, and I launched into my usual response that it was going better than I expected, that I felt lucky, really, to have not experienced some of the more traumatic symptoms Hollywood likes to hyperbolize in romantic comedies and cheesy sitcoms.

After a few moments of this I confessed that there had, in fact, been some difficult moments. Lately I had had a few episodes of breaking down in tears over silly things. She nodded calmly, knowingly. She’s a mom, she’s been down this road before. She assured me that it was within the realm of normal, and propped up my fragile confidence by reminding me of all the activity that was taking place within my body. Her words were simple, but within those words was the soothing implication that, with all that goes into creating another human being–while still being expected to function in life at your normal capacity—who could blame someone for the occasional emotional breakdown?

She asked if I had blogged about this very topic.  Well, no, I hadn’t.  But isn’t this exactly the thing us women bloggers like to talk about? FEELINGS?  Aren’t we here for this supportive sense of community, to collectively utter virtual ‘mmm-hmmm’s with each other over the tough times, and high five each other over the best?

Well, sure. But when I thought about it, I realized that I had been having a hard time admitting even to myself that I am not perfect. That at times pregnancy has kicked my ass as much as the next girl. These days I can’t set my alarm for 6 a.m. to dutifully log a brisk four mile jog before work. I can barely muster the energy to hit the snooze bar at 7. There are moments my brain won’t clear long enough to process a complex concept that ordinarily I would conquer with ease. And in these moments I blame myself for blaming pregnancy. Accuse myself of wanting an ‘out.’ I have always been strong. I’m afraid to be weak.

Maybe there’s something to this slow unraveling of humility. Maybe it’s all preparation for motherhood. I’m going to make plenty of mistakes. I have no doubt that I’ll be great, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this little person will kick my ass and show me just how human I am before I know what’s hit me. This phase right here?  This is warm-ups.

Before I got pregnant, I had been given fair warning that pregnancy is the great equalizer.  No matter how beautiful you are, how smart, how pulled together (and hell, why not, I’ll take credit for being in the upper percentiles of all three), pregnancy does not discriminate when it comes to snatching away your dignity.  Friends had warned me that the pregnant woman’s body is frequently laid bare (quite literally) for many to see.  Bloggers had regaled me with frightening tales of class and decorum being tossed out with the proverbial baby AND the bathwater.  And now, my friends, I can tell you that I’m starting to understand what others had warned me about.

I’m not quite far enough along to have experienced the more humbling of pregnancy experiences.  But the beauty of the nine month gestation period is that you’re broken in slowly to the many indignities of it all.  There’s the initial exam, where it’s bad enough that you find yourself facing hot pad-covered stirrups, let alone encountering the rather long object that will enter…well…you know where.

There’s the urine sample at every doctor’s appointment.  Before this journey, I thought urine samples were things people only talked about in hushed tones. On my second doctor’s appointment, while I was waiting in the reception area, one of the nurses loudly inquired whether I had provided a urine sample yet.  I rushed up to the desk, red flush spreading up my neck and across my cheeks.

“Not yet,” I whispered.  The nurse was unphased by my decorum.  She replied just as loudly as she’d begun.

“OK, well you’ve got to do it before you leave. If you don’t have to pee now, you can do it after your appointment.”

I retreated back to my seat with my head down.  There was a MAN in the waiting area!  What if he had heard?!  No matter that he was seated next to his very pregnant wife, and had by this point undoubtedly heard—and seen—much worse.

This week another piece of my humility endured a slow unraveling as I discovered with each passing day that it was getting harder and harder to fit into my pants and skirts.  I know that losing your waistline is par for the pregnancy course, but I think any woman can agree that having your shape morph from that of a glass bottle to that of an aluminum can is a tough pill to swallow.  My pants had slowly been getting tighter and tighter, my skirts no longer agreeing to zip all the way up.  And today? Today was the day.  I could no longer force the button on my khakis to close.  So I reached for the best available solution: a safety pin. The only thing preventing the world from seeing my skivvies was a thin metal tine taking on a burden no safety pin should be asked to shoulder. Try as I did to focus on more serious issues, much of my day was spent wondering if my zipper would hold up, now that its friend the button was taking some time off.

And so, I’ve resigned myself to purchasing this:

Here’s hoping that I’ll appear as glowing, toothy-grinned and ecstatic as these women are when I wrap this gauze-like piece of security around my growing belly each day.