I never thought I’d say it, but this weekend I actually
(I can’t say it)
(Oh my God not possible)
missed being pregnant.
Considering it was 95 degrees in New York with 197,098% humidity at the time, I was not missing bearing 45 extra pounds that taxed my cankles and spread my feet to the actual dimensions of your standard-issue clown shoes. I was not missing setting the world’s record for hourly bathroom visits. I was not missing chicken teriyaki as I ordered not one but two spicy tuna rolls from Iron Chef House for dinner, finally killing the multi-million dollar gift certificate bequeathed to me by two formerly pregnant friends who get it, big time.
I was not missing cervical checks.
The fleeting nostalgia for my formerly gestating self entered my consciousness only as I struggled to haul eight boxes about seven blocks away to the post office.
That’s right, I didn’t want to carry stuff.
You read about women faking a pregnancy to lure men to marry them and here I am considering faking a pregnancy to lure men to do things for me.
I want to be able to tell Nate that it’s just too hot for me to take the kids to the playground so can’t he just do it? After all I’M PREGNANT. I want to tell him that I’M PREGNANT so I really need all of his pillows tonight, and you know, since I’M PREGNANT I could use a backrub and a kilo of Reeses cups to ease the HELL OF PREGNANCY.
(Also, I no longer have an excuse for weeping when he comes back with the Reeses and they are just a little bit melty and stale. Even if it is totally warranted.)
Indeed there is something bittersweet about knowing you’ve just completed pregnancy number last.
You’ll never again get those kind looks from strangers on the street as their eyes dart from your belly to your face and back again. You’ll never again have that guaranteed seat on the subway–even if you really have to work it to get it. You’ll never again have fifty people a day asking you how you are and actually caring what the answer is. You never again caress those teeny weeny newborn clothes, carefully prewashing them in Dreft and folding them gingerly while you daydream about the child who’s going to fill them.
And you’ll definitely never again dare to say, “Honey, you bring the suitcase down then go get the car, drive it to me, load up the car, get the kids buckled in, and bring me a milkshake while you’re at it. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
I was not a good pregnant person. Not by a longshot. Even after doing it twice, I never quite got used to sharing my body with someone else. The random unwanted hairs. The Colace.
Nate jokes about “slipping another one past the goalie,” but I’m done. I have no interest in going for number three. My ovaries are old and tired, and they’re waving a white flag while pleading, “No more, please! We beg you! Let us retire and live out the rest of our days in peace.” I plan on honoring that request.
But boy, I would like someone to carry my 25-pound tote bag.
It’s hot outside.
Every Monday you’ll find Mom-101 cross posted at Time Out Kids, which makes me happy.