I know we’ve all read posts about this before, but I have to say something about the amount of comments I’ve been getting lately on the size of my belly. I think I would be more understanding if I were, say, 37 weeks pregnant, but people, I’m 27 WEEKS PREGNANT. My baby is barely viable, and the fact that people think it’s OK to comment on my inevitable hugeness at this point is really upsetting, never mind completely inappropriate conversation for a depressed person!
I tweeted this earlier today: “Someone asked if I was pregnant with twins today. This is why pregnant women hate people.” The part about pregnant women hating people is something one of my other pregnant friends said a couple of weeks ago, and at the time, I thought it was a little extreme. But not anymore. My tweet was immediately retweeted by chambanamoms.com, and the thought of it going out to an even larger community of moms hit home with me how true the sentiment is.
We tried hard for this baby. We planned and dreamed and tried and tried and it took us almost a year to get pregnant. During that time, I went through ups and downs with my depression: the intense, achy longing of wanting to get pregnant replaced immediately with thoughts of doubt about my body and my abilities as a parent (maybe I can’t handle two) when my period would come each month, red and angry. I sought out the help of my midwives and eventually, an infertility doctor. I was taking the most miscellaneous assortment of pills: baby aspirin to thin my blood, Mucinex to thin my mucous (sorry if that’s TMI), extra folic acid to prevent spina bifida—every time I saw someone new they would recommend something else, something they’d read a study about that had worked, something a friend had tried, something that wouldn’t hurt to try, since I’d tried everything else.
All of this is not to say that I was infertile and you need to feel sorry for me. I’m not, thankfully, and I know my journey was not as hard as the one infertile couples often have to take. I believe we’re only given what we can handle, and that seemingly infinite string of months that I couldn’t get pregnant was just about all I could handle.
I wanted to celebrate in this pregnancy, revel in it, really, but it has been so much harder than the first. Morning sickness was worse. Then, just when I started to feel better, my clothes no longer fit. I needed pregnancy clothes at 18 weeks with CJ—this time around I was wearing them at 12. Sooner than I expected, my pelvic joints started to ache and before I’d reached 20 weeks, walking had become painful and I started to waddle. At 23 weeks I bought a pregnancy belt, after much hemming and hawing and disappointment over the fact that somehow, my body had failed me.
Reading over this it sounds petty, and I know I could have it so much worse. I really do. I work in labor and delivery at a high-risk hospital—I’ve seen pregnant women with cancer, who’ve suffered a stroke, who’ve been in a coma, who’ve miscarried so many times you wonder how they have the strength to keep trying. The point I’m trying to make is, now, finally, I’m enjoying my pregnancy. I’m used to the daily aches and pains and no longer resentful of my little belt. I’m happy my baby is healthy and growing, and so what if that means my stomach is getting bigger? Gaining weight has always been difficult for me, and at 27 weeks I can truthfully say I’ve never weighed this much in my life, but it is what it is, and it’s what I signed up for. And after everything, after the trying and the waiting and the four thankfully normal ultrasounds I’ve had to date I have to say, it’s been worth it.
So the next time you see me on the elevator at the hospital, or at Target, or wherever, I challenge you to not say anything. Just smile. That is all a pregnant woman needs: a smile. I don’t need to hear that you think I could be due any day now, I don’t need to hear that you think I’m having twins, I don’t really need to hear anything about the size of my belly, whether you think it’s grown a bit in the last week or I’m looking pretty good for my gestational age. I just need a smile, maybe a nod of acknowledgement, and that’s it.
Really.
Just stop talking.
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