There’s something about this pregnancy that’s turning me into a huge ball of angst. I had two crying fits over the past weekend, one because nobody ever takes pictures of me (hand*staple*forehead*) and the one immediately following because my hair gets so tangled at the back of my neck that I think I might have to get it cut. I should have seen it coming after the MIL diatribe last week, or any number of times that I’ve had fits because of things not going according to plan. I touched on it in aforementioned diatribe, but I should probably unpack it, as they say, because crying over hair is silly (the picture thing is totally legit though.)
I’m pregnant, most likely for the last time, and I really don’t want to look back on this pregnancy and have a boatload of regrets about things I could’ve done differently. My last pregnancy was, how should I put it…not how I would have scripted it. It took us some time to decide we were going to keep the baby, and some of our family members were less than supportive with the decision we came to. And then, of course, the sono that showed us the heart defect. I reckon the amount of time we spent in the throes of pure, worry-free gushy excitement about having a baby was roughly a month. It was not pretty. The rest of the time was spent trying to justify our capability for having a child, doctor’s appointments, and sleeping. Honest to god, I slept through 2/3 of the pregnancy just to not have to deal with the sky falling. This is not to say that the pregnancy was miserable, just that I wanted some more time to really appreciate the wonder of what was happening.
One of the things I regretted most last time was not having any pictures of my growth. I have tried to remedy that this time around by doing the tacky mirror self-portrait deals but there is something sort of sad about having to photograph yourself. No, actually, it just makes me sad to have to photograph myself. And, a month or so ago, I just sort of stopped doing it. Not as a protest or anything, just because it was easy enough to skip a week, and then two, and then it was more hassle than it was worth to wait for Lucy to go to bed and get a path cleared in the bedroom and go through all sorts of contortion to get a side view. Still, when a big pregnancy promise is to document your growth, eventually the your hormones are going to overtake you. Exhibit A, the ‘everybody thinks I’m hideous and is just too polite to tell me’ crying jag. (in my defense: there are strikingly few pictures of me over the last few years and the few that have been taken involve being outside which means either I have my face screwed up into a squint or am wearing a cap and brown SPF shirt. Why do people take pictures outside anyway?) I don’t know why I have so much of my self-esteem wound up in whether or not people wielding cameras actually point said camera at me, but I do. When I get a batch of pictures from my family and I’m not in any of them, I wonder if it isn’t some sort of subliminal message that my presence wasn’t noted (or wanted.) It’s more understandable with the ILs since, you know, they’ve all known each other for a really long time, but still it makes me feel as though I’m not a person one would want in one’s photo album. It sounds sort of silly, but it’s a really big deal to me. One of the things that sent me over the edge crying when I had my breakdown a few years back was that I would die, Lucy wouldn’t even remember me, and there would only be 2 pictures of me with her. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that, actually, and I think maybe it doesn’t have much to do with pregnancy after all but let’s see where this goes, shall we?
Anyway, for this pregnancy I set out particulars about which I didn’t want to compromise. Photos were one. I also desperately wanted to take prenatal yoga. As I touched upon in the diatribe, I was not able to do it. It is a very big deal to me because one of the main reasons I could not do it was travel. In order to appease everyone who wanted commitments to visits over the summer, I had to scrap prenatal yoga (Friday nights.) I am still not happy about it, and by ‘not happy’ I do mean really resentful at this point. I didn’t realize, until last week, how angry I am about the demand on our time for this summer. I allowed somebody else’s priorities to overshadow mine, and I’m really mad at myself. In fairness, I tried to say no countless times, but at no point did I stand up and say, ‘I will regret not taking this class and I do not find regret to be worthwhile.’ The upside (that I may be able to take it once our travel extravaganza gets finished, assuming I am not entirely exhausted and that 3rd trimester isn’t too late to start) is unfortunately pretty well lost on me right now, as it slowly starts to dawn on me that this pregnancy will probably be nothing great to look back on either. 9 months seems like such a long time until you get around month 7 and realize that anything you didn’t get done already will have to be packed into the remaining time. Which is, I’m afraid, a feeling that sucks as well as a feeling I’m struggling with right now.
And the big, huge, freaking irony? All of these things I wanted to do this time around were all under the guise of ‘enjoying the pregnancy’ which I’ve managed to nitpick until I can’t even relax to enjoy it because there’s something I’m going to miss later or somebody else has something they want me to do, or whatever. I’m really struggling here, and I keep lashing out and I think I just need some time where I don’t feel so much pressure for everything to be a certain way or else, and I’ll be goddamned if I know how to relax enough to figure out how to do that. To be completely honest, it’s not even like I’m sitting around the house miserable or anything, it just all comes out that way when I try to write about it and I don’t know what it means that I can’t write about anything without getting angry or sad.
Read Full Post »