Let me start off by saying something.
Pregnancy, as a whole, really is this beautiful miracle all the books, movies and mommies blabber about. You don’t really think about how much has to go right for a tiny life to not just be created, but to last 40 long weeks in your body. So what you read below might sound like complaining (probably because some of it is), but this in no way, shape or form means that I’m not incredibly ecstatic and grateful to have a healthy, growing baby inside me. With under three months to go until D-day, the reality of our little baby boy is seriously starting to sink in.
Here’s the thing though.
While I hate to burst all your pregnancy bubbles out there, being pregnant with your second child (and what I can only imagine your third, fourth and fifth feels like) is basically nothing like your first one.
Don’t get me wrong. I realize there are these magical pregnant ladies dotting the world that were just built to house babies and pop them out. They have that beautiful glow, they get cute little bumps and their labors are an hour long. I’m sure that they exist, in fact, I think a lot of women pretend to be a member of this group because there seems to be a really bad stigma in our society about having negative thoughts regarding pregnancy.
Well, you know what, fuck em.
For me, being pregnant with my second child has basically been like my first pregnancy, only on steroids. Not only did I show sooner, gain more and basically eat us out of house and home, there are all these pesky things that hung around from the first pregnancy that make matters way, way worse.
Do you know what people failed to mention about being pregnant the second time? The part where you basically turn into what I imagine a 90-year-old woman feels like. For starters, my boobs, they’ve basically been replaced by these giant, fat and tissue filled, head-sized bean bags that I don’t dare let out of a bra anymore for fear that I’ll step on them. Yep, that’s right, I’m 27 years old and I’ve lost control of my boobs. I have friends that don’t have this problem. They have modest, A and B cups prepregnancy, so when they get knocked up they get the perky porn star boobs.
But me, Miss surpassed DD land after having my daughter, my boobs are, well, the size of my daughter’s head. No seriously, I have proof. I actually caught my daughter running around with one of my bras over her head after doing laundry one day. You can imagine how utterly depressing it is to realize your boob is the size of something you pushed out of your vagina.
And speaking of your vagina, was there a time when it functioned properly? Nowadays I find myself praying I don’t sneeze more than three times because if I do, it’ll be the fifth time I’ve changed my underwear that day because I’ll have peed myself, again.
And don’t even start with me about kegels, those magical exercises you do to squeeze your lady parts and ensure that your vagina doesn’t just become a pit that babies and bodily fluids just fall out of (although, at this point, a baby just falling out of there sounds like a nice break). As someone who followed this exercise regime religiously with my first, I have a hard time believing all that work was simply to give me the power to sneeze TWICE without peeing (but watch out for that third time)! I’m calling a big bluff on that one.
If those few things aren’t bad enough, there’s the people. The one’s who keep asking how you’re doing, waiting for you to say something bad so they can pounce on you, making you feel guilty for not being glowy enough and patting themselves on the back because *they* were far better at being pregnant than you.
I’m sorry to all my non-pregnant mommy friends of one, if I have to hear one more of you tell me how beautiful and perfect your pregnancy was and how you just can’t wait to be all fat and knocked up again, I might pull out all your eyelashes one by one. I’m so, so, so over the moon excited to be having this baby (particularly with some of the issues we faced in the beginning), but please realize you don’t have any idea what being big, ole, chunkified pregnant AND chasing a toddler around is like.
Do you know what it’s like? Picture your first pregnancy: the naps, the amazing food and husband who was at your beckon call to get you whatever crazy thing you were craving, the first flutters in your uterus and all the exciting magic that was ahead of you (your natural labor, your perfect breastfeeding and bonding experience with baby and the 30-minute shred video that would get you back into your prepregnancy jeans in three weeks).
Now, I want you to replace those naps with whines for more milk, cleaning up said milk that has spilled, wiping a snotty nose, cleaning pee off the rug after an unsuccessful potty training attempt, eating a Boca burger for the 19th day in a row because you are too exhausted to fix anything else and rather than sending your husband on some mystical food errand you’re just begging him to take your toddler anywhere but here.
And then, just when you start to doze off for five minutes of bliss, you sneeze three times and have to get up and change your underwear.
I realize I’m whining here, I realize I probably sound ungrateful and ranty to most. Forgive me. I’m big, ole third trimester pregnant. While my body gets to go through all of the amazing processes it takes to house a growing child, the rest of my life doesn’t stop for this, the rest of my life that includes a toddler that needs me seemingly more than this unborn child at times, a full-time job which I am so utterly passionate about, a husband and a house that both get neglected more than they should.
So while I know it’s a total miracle what’s happening, one that is worth every tiny issue it might bring, I’m also a lot of other things in addition to pregnant, so forgive me if I shutter when I think about trying to squeeze my ass into prepregnancy jeans at the end of all this.