I really don’t like being pregnant.
No, I’m not pregnant. Not yet. But I’m thinking about this because Christian and I have now passed into Phase III of the last “trying to postpone” cycle, so we’re rejoining the classification “trying to conceive.” Two nights ago as I prepared to climb into bed, I had a vivid recollection of the way my tendons yank my uterus around when I’m pregnant. And I thought, oh boy, here we go.
It’s easy to enumerate the inconvenience and discomfort associated with pregnancy. (The itchies that were a result of using scented soap. Feeling hungry and overstuffed at the same time. Exhaustion. Blood sugar rollercoasters.) The problem is that a lot of women seem to focus on the discomforts and then use the list as an excuse to stop having kids.
So when I start obsessing about the 9-month ordeal soon to come (hopefully), I try to remember the infertile woman I was five years ago, when I would gladly have traded anything just to have a child growing in my womb. I try to remember the helpless rage that choked me when pregnant women griped about swollen ankles and hot flashes.
And I focus, too, on the reason why I go through pregnancy: the belief that this child I bear will make the world a better place—will make me a better person. I remind myself that at the end of 9 months of pregnancy, I’ll have a baby to snuggle, a toddler to teach and a new person to introduce to this wonderful world. I reflect on the miracle that is a pregnancy: a piece of me, a piece of my husband, knit together by God into a wholly new, unique person.
Nine months of pregnancy for a little soul who will exist forever.
Not a bad trade, really.
Kathleen M. Basi 