As I sat in the bathroom, staring at the pregnancy test in my hand, disbelief washed over me. Two faint pink lines signified that I was no longer alone in my body, and panic set in.
My partner and I had made the mutual decision to start a family, eagerly embarking on the journey that would disrupt our previously tidy, child-free home. For several months, we joyfully proclaimed to anyone who would listen, “We’re trying!” However, when I finally saw those two lines, I felt anything but joy.
Throughout that day, I wandered aimlessly, occasionally touching my belly with a face that screamed, “What have I done?” I tried to convince myself that I would love the experience of pregnancy. Friends often waxed poetic about the bond they felt with their unborn child, and I had heard tales of how pregnancy made women glow. I had hoped for that same radiance, but I can honestly say—I did not glow during my pregnancy. The only thing that resembled a glow was the sweat on my forehead after I had spent the day repeatedly vomiting.
To be blunt, I loathed every moment of being pregnant. No matter how hard I tried to appreciate the miracle of life, I could not get past the discomfort of hemorrhoids, painfully swollen breasts, and the relentless nausea that made me dread being around my partner for ten months. The experience was more like sharing my body with an unwelcome guest who continually pressed on my bladder and made me second-guess ever enjoying guacamole again after a particularly nasty bout with morning sickness.
When I attempted to voice my struggles to friends, they often brushed it off with, “Oh, pregnancy goes by so fast! You won’t even remember it once you have that little one in your arms!” They would sympathize with the challenges of swollen breasts and all-day nausea, but for the most part, I felt isolated in my feelings. I wasn’t enamored by the physical changes happening to my body, and the fleeting moments of comfort were few and far between.
The worst part? I was expected to handle this body transformation and the impending responsibilities of motherhood without a sip of wine. Honestly, I felt that surviving pregnancy constipation deserved a strong drink, and it was just plain unfair to have to nibble on ice chips while my friends enjoyed glasses of sauvignon blanc at gatherings.
So yes, pregnancy was tough for me, and I’m not shy about saying it. It’s entirely possible to be thrilled about becoming a mother while simultaneously detesting the process of being pregnant. Even after diving into every pregnancy book available, nothing prepared me for the sight of my body just days before delivery. I’m aware that many women would cherish the opportunity to complain about pregnancy, and I know I might come off as ungrateful for voicing my discontent when I was fortunate enough to conceive without complications. But for me, the reality is that pregnancy was a struggle.
I wanted desperately to enjoy the experience and take pleasure in it, so it was disheartening to feel the opposite of what so many women seem to cherish. There’s nothing glamorous about pregnancy, and I genuinely can’t understand when a woman describes the joy of watching her body transform into a version of the Pillsbury Doughboy.
I don’t hold any resentment towards women who find joy in their pregnancies, but I also know I’m not alone in rolling my eyes when they describe feeling beautiful while carrying an extra 50 pounds. I felt like a swollen mess.
And let’s not even get started on the aftermath of childbirth. Every pregnant woman should receive a fair warning about the first postpartum poop—because when that moment arrives, it’s like a surprise encounter with the divine while you’re trying to push out something that feels like it’s been petrified for a week.
To sum it up, I hated pregnancy and the aftermath, and I refuse to feel guilty about it. Counting down the days until I regained control of my body doesn’t diminish my worthiness as a mother. Honesty is crucial, and I wish someone had shared their similar feelings during their pregnancies. It’s vital for women to know that they’re not bad mothers simply because they dread gestational diabetes or bed rest complications.
It’s perfectly okay to dislike being pregnant. Thankfully, those trimesters do seem to fly by; otherwise, enduring swollen ankles and the kind of gas that could clear a room for longer than ten months would surely deter anyone from considering motherhood.
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Summary
The author openly shares her struggles with pregnancy, expressing that she disliked the experience despite being excited about becoming a mother. She reflects on the discomfort, societal expectations, and the lack of candor regarding the challenges of pregnancy. The narrative emphasizes the importance of honesty about the experience and the need for women to feel validated in their feelings.