As a mom, I often look back at stages of my children’s lives with rose-colored glasses. Without them, my first child would have remained an only child. While I know that I look back on many memories with a rosy perspective, I must have reserved my rosiest glasses for pregnancy.
After my first two pregnancies, I simply recalled that it was a sweet time. I loved the cute clothes, the belly bump, and the attention from people. I even enjoyed my prenatal appointments. At worst, I remembered it being a little stressful or anxiety provoking at times. But overall, pretty fun.
Now, I am 37 weeks pregnant with my third. I spent the first four months constantly feeling like I needed to throw up. I was gassy. I had indigestion. I was exhausted. My body ached and I was uncomfortable. And while the morning sickness (or let’s call it for what it is: all day sickness) eventually dissipated, the rest of it didn’t go away. I haven’t enjoyed much of the last 8 months; it’s felt more like a means to an end. For some reason, I had conveniently forgotten how awful pregnancy could be.
It’s easier for me to think about the time after pregnancy rationally. The newborn stage? Exhausting. I cried all the time. I constantly thought I was a failure as a parent. The toddler stage? Frustrating. Those little tyrants knew what they wanted. Reasoning with them was futile. Preschool years? Teaching them manners and appropriate behavior felt like a losing battle every other day.
And pregnancy? Pregnancy is the time that I remembered as being “cute” and “fun” where I was a little more tired than usual. Seriously?
Before this pregnancy, I was a little surprised any time a pregnant woman made a comment like “I’m never doing this again.” I mean, you aren’t exactly at the most clear-headed place of your life. It’s a major decision to make with that hormone-addled brain.
But now? For me?
I’m never doing this again.