p r e g g o
Third trimester and my body feels like it has been put together slightly wrong. I am a jigsaw puzzle with a foreign piece tacked on.
Patches of old skin wrap my new body like ill-fitting cloth that I desperately want to peel off and fling away. Like a underwire bra want to be free of.
Pregnancy is the mother of all mind games,
a challenge of spirit
and of sanity.
I don’t know how many times a day I have to swallow my hormones (along with the reflux) and not loose my sh*t at the people I love / my house plants / my barking dogs / idiot drivers / prams that won’t open / empty milk cartons / clothes that used to fit but now make me look like an awkward Cadbury egg
I used to be invisible.
If was having a bad day I didn’t have to work hard to hide it.
I could eat things, do things without strangers uttering a word. Better still, I was ignored!
But now my belly is a conversation starter, and they gesture towards it as if IT initiated the conversation.
Like when I am in the line at Kmart prying a stolen chocolate out of my kid’s sticky little grasp, while pushing a pram one handed and absolutely bursting to pee and someone says:
“By the looks of that bump you’ll have your hands full VERY soon.”
Or when I am walking on puffy feet to the car park dragging a whinging, over tired toddler:
“Oh, that’s a very ripe belly! When are you due? Do you know what you’re having?”
But it’s fiiiiiiine because I am pregnant therefor it’s okay for people want to know all kinds of things about me, a person they don’t know and the baby they’ll never meet.
I find that so weird, the trust of strangers. I could be a complete and utter weirdo but they wont suspect it because I am pregnant and therefor trust worthy, nice and good.
For me, it is daily tug-o-war between wishing it was over and feeling immense guilt because some babies come too early or never at all.
And that makes it hard.
Pregnancy is a wonderful,
miracle of a thing
but it’s also
and hard work.
Now, pass me the Gaviscon and let’s have a nap