Ever hear that expression, “The cobbler’s children have no shoes?”
I’m living that right now. Which is why I’ve been largely absent from the blogosphere, both in posts and in comments. I’m sorry! I’m still reading all of your blogs on my phone, promise.
The expression refers to the phenomenon where professionals in one particular field spend so much time on that thing during work hours that they have neither the time nor the inclination to perform those same services for their friends and loved ones. Case in point – my laptop inexplicably contracted a virus. I have no idea how that’s even possible… I’m one of those people who literally only uses a computer for Google and email, I never download weird or sketchy programs, I don’t surf porn (I swear), I don’t do anything crazy or technical. So how the hell did I get a virus? I don’t know. But my computer has been dead for almost a week now, and my dear techy/nerd/IT husband (I think I know his title at work but honestly I have no idea what he does for a living besides make more money than me) is too stressed out when he gets home from work to work on it. I don’t blame him – one of the downfalls of having a writing job by day is that I don’t really feel like penning the next great novel when I get home at night. I’m tired and spent, word-wise. But still… this lack of laptop makes me feel quite unhinged. I’m dashing this off on one of our “extra” computers and the keyboard is super loud and annoying so I might have to make this brief.
I was thinking today about how as I creep up to the halfway mark of this pregnancy (SERIOUSLY?!), things are just not how I expected them to be. Please don’t take this as complaining, because it’s not – it’s more reflecting on how different reality vs. fantasy really is.
As an infertile, I spent a lot of time daydreaming about being pregnant. I imagined it to be a magical time where everything went right and every day was perfect. It sounds silly, but when I pictured myself pregnant, I couldn’t help but see myself surrounded by a sort of glowing light, angel style. My imagination is quite vivid.
But…no. I’m still me, just fatter me. I still have to wake up every morning and go to work and come home and cook dinner. Aside from some conversations that I wouldn’t otherwise be having, a big belly, and never-ending lower back pain, not much is different. I’m still me. I still feel like me. I’m not sure if this is a side effect of infertility (never get too comfortable!) or if all pregnant people feel this way… just, blah.
I remember having lunch with a pregnant friend once and listening to her lament how she felt fat and unattractive. “But you’re pregnant! You’re beautiful!” I protested. Now I’m starting to see what she meant. I do love my belly; as I mentioned before, it’s like a fun accessory that makes all my shirts look cool. But then my fingers swelled up, forcing me to rock junk jewelry from 7th grade in place of my wedding bands. My ass expanded. My thighs are back to rubbing together. I feel huge and unattractive and puffy. The stomach does a lot to counterbalance that, yes. But if we’re being honest, I just feel gross.
Wow, I promised not to complain and this sounds an awful lot like complaining. Sorry. And I’m not saying it’s not worth it. But for right now, this is what’s on my mind. And at 18 weeks and with no sign of feeling fetal movement yet, it still just doesn’t feel “real.” I’m hormonal/puffy/sleepy/constipated for no apparent reason. I have to keep reminding myself to enjoy this time… and doesn’t that defeat the purpose? I WANT to enjoy it, of course I do, but this week especially I just don’t.
I think that the gender scan on February 3rd is really going to help make it feel more real. Right now it’s hard to picture the baby, but once I can assign a “boy” or “girl” designation and start calling him/her by a name, I’m hoping things will click into place. Plus by then I’ll be feeling movement… right? Hopefully? I already feel behind on that.
Ok, complain session over. Thanks for not throwing tomatoes at me. I would have if I were you.