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It happened during the ninth
month of my first pregnancy. I was going through a
department store check-out lane where a teenage girl was
ringing up my purchases. She looked shyly at my burgeoning
belly with an expression that could only be described as
reverent.
With eyes full of dreams of
future motherhood she asked, “Is pregnancy really as bad
as everyone says?”
Without the slightest
guilt, I replied, “No. It’s worse.”
The Deception
When my husband and I
announced the birth of our blessed expectation some months
prior, along with endless congratulations, I received the
good news of the many wonderful changes I could expect.
"You’ll positively
glow.”
“Your hair and nails will
look fabulous.”
“You’ll feel absolutely
beautiful.”
According to family and
friends, as a gestating woman, I would feel nothing short
of a precious vessel, glowing with health and radiance
given only to those experiencing the miracle of growing a
child.
About a week later, wearing
the pallor of death, I was running away from the smell of
my husband’s lunchtime tuna fish sandwich knowing I’d
never been so violently ill my entire life.
The Reality
Although it’s rumored
there are actually women who sail through pregnancy
untouched by any ills or discomfort, I was not one of
them. If I’d ever experienced a pregnancy glow, I’m
certain I could only have been radioactive.
I was told to expect a
little morning sickness. I didn’t anticipate 24/7
progesterone poisoning, body aches, or never ending
fatigue. And in all the happy tales of pregnancy recounted
to me, I'm certain I'd have remembered hearing if pure,
unadulterated misery were mentioned as a symptom of
gestation.
Sitting in my
obstetrician’s office near the end of the first
trimester, she asked how I was feeling. “Sick.”
“Good.” She replied.
Seeing my defeated look,
she offered a small respite. “You’ll start to feel
better after week 12 or 13.”
I crossed the days off my
calendar waiting for magical week 13. It came and went. My
never ending nausea did not. I was sick, tired, and sick
of being both.
I'd been told how sharing a
child together would make my marital relationship more
intimate. I, on the other hand, hated my husband. No
matter he and I had joyfully consented to make this child
together, or that he worried and did the best he could to
make me feel more comfortable. Somewhere in the back of my
mind, as I watched him lie peacefully asleep at night
while I was awake fending off nausea, all I could think
was, “this is your fault.”
And so it went for the
entire duration of nine months. I knew beyond any shadow
of a doubt, if I ever survived this go-round on the
pregnancy rollercoaster, there would be no more children
in my future, ever. Motherhood just wasn’t all that it
was cracked up to be.
The Grand Debut
Jacob Lyle arrived in early
fall that year, bearing 10 perfect fingers and toes, a
head full of brown hair and big blue eyes. He was bruised
and battered from birth, yet, to my eyes, perfection
unlike the world had ever seen before.
Suddenly, my entire life
made sense. At 23-years old, I wasn’t yet sure what I
wanted to be when I grew up, or what my future held
outside of being a wife to my husband. With the arrival of
Jacob, I knew exactly why I was here—to be the mother of
this beautiful child. Having Jacob filled my life with a
sense of awe and wonder I had never known. I was a mother,
and that was enough.
Altered Expectations
While I had expected
sleepless nights with my newborn, what I hadn’t expected
was how much I would enjoy them. I gladly gave up sleep to
have the chance just to hold my tiny son in my arms and
look at his sweet face.
I expected life to change.
I never expected the very foundations of my world to be
rocked. It came as a total shock that the simple act of
becoming a mother—wasn’t simple.
Previous to motherhood,
tragedy in the world was sad. After the birth of my son,
it was heart-wrenching. No longer could I watch a movie or
read a news report depicting harm to a child without
emotion. Every child became my child. What if it were
Jacob who was sick? What if it were Jacob who was injured?
Issues I’d previously
given no thought suddenly became of substantial
importance. Was there truly a difference between
breastfeeding and formula feeding? Should we circumcise?
If I vaccinated my child, he could have a serious adverse
reaction. If I chose not to vaccinate, he could become
very ill.
I became an information
addict and read every book on childcare I could get my
hands on and spent endless hours researching my concerns
and second guessing my decisions. The rest of my waking
hours were spent staring at Jacob as he slept, assuring
myself he was still breathing and would only continue to
do so thorough my conscious willing of it. Fortunately, he
survived my new mother paranoia and came out relatively
unscathed-- or at least, I will assume so until I’m
presented with a bill for therapy.
Personal Truths
I had gone into motherhood
with the words of many fostering my belief I’d have a
baby, but life would eventually go back to normal again by
the magical six-week check-up (at which point I'd also
have lost all my baby weight). What I didn’t know when I
gave birth was normal was gone forever, along with any
peace of mind, my figure, and any hope of a good night’s
sleep, but that I’d never trade a moment of my new life
to have it back again.
Motherhood, I’ve come to
find, is a journey rather than a destination. And while we
may endeavor to share experiences with a new mom-to-be,
the truths of motherhood remain personal and hers alone to
find. The only certainty is the journey is well worth
traveling.
I only wish I could talk to
that teenager one more time.
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