This week marked the halfway mark of my third pregnancy. 20 weeks down, 20 weeks to go.
It hasn’t gone by fast.
If this third pregnancy has solidified anything for me, it’s that I don’t like being pregnant. It’s not that it’s awful per se, and I am so very grateful that so far this pregnancy has been complication free. It’s just that apart from the whole miracle of birth and the kicks that I’m starting to feel (which I do love), it’s not that much fun. It’s a denial of things I would normally indulge in (oh margaritas and raw oysters, how I miss you). It’s an overindulgence of food and desserts to make up for the denial of my normal indulgences, resulting in a steady weight gain that I swore wouldn’t happen to me this pregnancy. It’s a welcome of all too familiar discomfort – of not being able to sleep on my stomach, of heartburn, of back pain, of headaches I can’t cure with advil. It’s the dawn of a new kind of anxiety – a kind I had forgotten about – where you pray and beg the weeks to go by until your baby is viable, until his lungs are developed, until he weights more and more – so God forbid, should you deliver early, he will be okay.
Notwithstanding the fact that I’ve been through this before and I know what’s to come (aka, my life won't be all that easy upon giving birth either), I find myself breaking a cardinal rule of mine and living outside of the moment; of counting down the weeks. Only 20 weeks left to go, was my mantra throughout much of this week. Only 20 weeks until I get my body back, until I get my life back, until I am not pregnant anymore.
Only I WON’T get my life back in 20 weeks. My life, and the lives of my husband and family, will be forever changed. It will be a positive change, about which I will someday say, “I can’t imagine I ever had a life before this little boy” – exactly what I say about my first two boys. But the fact is, this life I have now, that I have gotten used to, embraced, and found comfort in, will never return to me.