I wish I could say I was one of those women who enjoyed pregnancy, but I’d be lying if I said I did. The first 16 weeks were plagued with bad nausea and vomiting; I couldn’t keep anything down. Brushing my teeth and even yawning would make me throw up.
The weeks following weren’t so bad, the more my belly grew in size, and I could feel him move and groove, I started enjoying it. The more I enjoyed the bonding time with the baby. I rubbed my belly, talking and singing to him, watching him react only to his father. That was the beautiful part.
As I got deeper into the third trimester and started experiencing discomfort, it reminded me of the beginning. Though nausea never returned, I was so tired from working and life in general that all I could do was sleep.
Another exciting aspect for me, particularly, was witnessing my body’s changes. While everyone so sweetly would compliment me on being “all belly,” I could see the changes in myself so much that I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. Having been the little thing for my entire life, it was pretty different to see myself with a 50lb weight gain.
For the most part, I didn’t mind. It was what my body needed to do to grow my human. But no amount of me felt beautiful, no matter how many times a day my husband told me I was; I just couldn’t handle it. Still, I reminded myself of the temporary nature of my situation and opted to avoid mirrors as a result. As much as the changes were there, my genuine concern was carrying a healthy baby; that mattered most.
I dreamt about the baby often. What he would look like, what he would be like. I questioned if his womb behavior would indicate his behavior on the outside. He moved so much that I often joked that he was working out or in ninja training. During his sleep times, I often felt what I now know to be elbows protruding from my stomach.
Ultrasounds showed just how much he loved to have his arms up and hands in his face. I was curious about who this little human was growing inside of me, hoping he would get only the best parts of me. I spoke to him, tapping on my belly as I did, letting him know that I would be doing everything in my power for him, asking him to be in position and ready when the time came.
I never thought I’d miss pregnancy until the day I felt it was ripped from me. It sounds dramatic, but ultimately that’s exactly what happened when he was delivered vía cesarean three weeks early. My life would never be the same the Tuesday morning of my 37-week check-up when I ended up in the hospital due to gestational hypertension, ultimately derailing my birth plan.
Though I could hear his heartbeat, the belly band holding down the fetal monitors and being bedridden sometimes made me forget I was pregnant. And while each movement he made showed up on the screen, I could no longer feel them, and with everything strapped to me, I couldn’t rub my belly. I felt limited and disconnected from what had once been supposed to be so intimate; it’s no wonder I spent almost two whole days being induced.
There was a valuable lesson in all this; learn to be flexible. I didn’t realize it then, but it was exactly what I’d need for my motherhood journey.