There are women who love being pregnant. I don't actually know any of them, but I have seen pictures of them on all the pregnancy books I own. There they stand, smiling down at the beachballs of their stomachs with a fondly happy look.
I have NEVER looked at my growing stomach like that. The look I give it is one of horror, the same I give clowns - one of sheer disbelief that such a terrifying thing could exist; a disbelief that is compounded by the knowledge that there are, in fact, some folk out there who regard such things as fun and friendly.
If I find my stomach disturbing from an aesthetic point of view, that's nothing compared to the new sensations I am experiencing. Yes, all the books mention that there might be a little itchiness as your skin stretches. Of course, this is followed immediately by a sentence like - "but it's all worth it!" (note the exclamation mark). This is a mild description, and one that doesn't quite correlate with the crazy feeling of a million fleas turned loose inside your bra; a feeling that leaves you scrubbing at your boobs as if you're trying to remove a particularly stubborn toilet stain just before your overly critical mom-in-law arrives for a visit. I've always felt awkward scratching in public, but watch me now - even the knowledge that I am pulling that hideous "I need All Bran face" doesn't put me off.
Then there's that feeling when your belly button pops out. Oooh, the horror - there it's been, a tiny piece of skin tucked snugly inside your belly button for over 33 years, suddenly thrust out into the cold to chafe against leggings, stockings and T-shirts. Let's put this in perspective - imagine you are one of those deep sea creatures that has lived in the parts of the ocean that sunlight just cannot penetrate. Suddenly, you are thrust into the open air. On a hot day. In the tropics. How does your transparent, skinless, hairless body feel? Exactly like my belly button feels every time I pull on a pair of jeans.
I also want to say at this point that I used to fancy myself quite the dancer. Oh yes, I know that the image in my mind (ie Dame Margot transformed into a dandelion) was quite different to the reality (ie a hydra, wearing clogs, with its opposing body parts trying to move in different directions). Nonetheless, compared with my current mobility, I was indeed a paragon of grace. Every night sees me sink gratefully into the couch - only to realise that unless my husband lends me a hand, I will be stuck there for hours. Because humans are programmed to strive for survival, battling against the realities of their situation, I try to defy my circumstaces, desperately scrabbling at the air with hands still clawed from my latest bout of scratching. It is hopelessly amusing to watch - I know, because my husband has a good old guffaw every time he sees me fighting the air for purchase. Nothing makes one feel less dignified, i tell you - oh wait, unless it's the battle to turn over in bed, an exercise that takes a good minute or two as I gather myself on all fours, collecting my five-foot long pregnancy pillow with me, finally reaching the other side not so much through dexterity but because I have collapsed from the sheer effort.
Even so, lying down, uncomfortable though it is, is infinitely preferable to standing, now that I have reached a point where the sheer weight of my own self makes me lean backwards, like a sapling planted in the full force of a Cape Town southeaster.
Have I mentioned the pregnancy drip tray? Perhaps I don't need to - that's because it's plainly visible to anyone I meet, so I don't have to point it out. I can't say that I am a tidy eater - on the contrary, you can always tell which place at the table I have occupied, thanks to the accumulation of various splashes and crumbs. Nowadays, with my stomach creating a not inconsiderable obstacle between me and the table, those splashes and crumbs land up on my bosom. As a result, my clothes continuously look like an ancient doily that has been used as a bib at an old age home.
I can imagine what this sounds like to people who have battled to fall pregnant and desperately want to. And please, do not for a moment think that I do not consider myself enormously blessed, or that I am not beside myself with excitement waiting to meet my child. It's just that I believe there HAS got to be a better way (and I'm pretty sure that if it were men who gave birth, finding it would have been a priority).
I have NEVER looked at my growing stomach like that. The look I give it is one of horror, the same I give clowns - one of sheer disbelief that such a terrifying thing could exist; a disbelief that is compounded by the knowledge that there are, in fact, some folk out there who regard such things as fun and friendly.
If I find my stomach disturbing from an aesthetic point of view, that's nothing compared to the new sensations I am experiencing. Yes, all the books mention that there might be a little itchiness as your skin stretches. Of course, this is followed immediately by a sentence like - "but it's all worth it!" (note the exclamation mark). This is a mild description, and one that doesn't quite correlate with the crazy feeling of a million fleas turned loose inside your bra; a feeling that leaves you scrubbing at your boobs as if you're trying to remove a particularly stubborn toilet stain just before your overly critical mom-in-law arrives for a visit. I've always felt awkward scratching in public, but watch me now - even the knowledge that I am pulling that hideous "I need All Bran face" doesn't put me off.
Then there's that feeling when your belly button pops out. Oooh, the horror - there it's been, a tiny piece of skin tucked snugly inside your belly button for over 33 years, suddenly thrust out into the cold to chafe against leggings, stockings and T-shirts. Let's put this in perspective - imagine you are one of those deep sea creatures that has lived in the parts of the ocean that sunlight just cannot penetrate. Suddenly, you are thrust into the open air. On a hot day. In the tropics. How does your transparent, skinless, hairless body feel? Exactly like my belly button feels every time I pull on a pair of jeans.
I also want to say at this point that I used to fancy myself quite the dancer. Oh yes, I know that the image in my mind (ie Dame Margot transformed into a dandelion) was quite different to the reality (ie a hydra, wearing clogs, with its opposing body parts trying to move in different directions). Nonetheless, compared with my current mobility, I was indeed a paragon of grace. Every night sees me sink gratefully into the couch - only to realise that unless my husband lends me a hand, I will be stuck there for hours. Because humans are programmed to strive for survival, battling against the realities of their situation, I try to defy my circumstaces, desperately scrabbling at the air with hands still clawed from my latest bout of scratching. It is hopelessly amusing to watch - I know, because my husband has a good old guffaw every time he sees me fighting the air for purchase. Nothing makes one feel less dignified, i tell you - oh wait, unless it's the battle to turn over in bed, an exercise that takes a good minute or two as I gather myself on all fours, collecting my five-foot long pregnancy pillow with me, finally reaching the other side not so much through dexterity but because I have collapsed from the sheer effort.
Even so, lying down, uncomfortable though it is, is infinitely preferable to standing, now that I have reached a point where the sheer weight of my own self makes me lean backwards, like a sapling planted in the full force of a Cape Town southeaster.
Have I mentioned the pregnancy drip tray? Perhaps I don't need to - that's because it's plainly visible to anyone I meet, so I don't have to point it out. I can't say that I am a tidy eater - on the contrary, you can always tell which place at the table I have occupied, thanks to the accumulation of various splashes and crumbs. Nowadays, with my stomach creating a not inconsiderable obstacle between me and the table, those splashes and crumbs land up on my bosom. As a result, my clothes continuously look like an ancient doily that has been used as a bib at an old age home.
I can imagine what this sounds like to people who have battled to fall pregnant and desperately want to. And please, do not for a moment think that I do not consider myself enormously blessed, or that I am not beside myself with excitement waiting to meet my child. It's just that I believe there HAS got to be a better way (and I'm pretty sure that if it were men who gave birth, finding it would have been a priority).
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