Makayla Silva
I have come to realize that there is a collective amnesia about pregnancy among all women that have given birth. Yes, I understand that the moment that little kick boxer is finally pulled out, all feelings of pain and exhaustion subside and something close to euphoria takes over.
But, I am not there yet. And I’d like to point out that the experience has not been the most fulfilling and happiest time of my life. You ecstatic women are simply insane.
One of the first things I was grossly disappointed about was the pregnancy glow that I assumed was due to me. It was like finding out there was no Santa Claus. I wanted to slap anyone that said, “You’re glowing.” I’m not glowing. I made wise decisions at Sephora. Otherwise I would look as exhausted as I felt. I am no Courtney Mazza or Christina Applegate who look pregnant and fabulous.
I wear leggings and Target maternity clothes. And I really don’t care what you think about my furry slipper-shoes.
Another shocker: People don’t care that I am pregnant. I was reassured that my bump and slight waddle were like a Six-Flags line-jumping Flash Pass. Not the case. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, “Don’t you know that I am having a baby. Doesn’t that matter?” Apparently, it does not.
Perhaps I feel a tad over entitled while dancing on my tippy toes in never-ending restroom lines. But I’ve learned that I can become somewhat hysterical if I do not get to a bathroom in a reasonable amount of time. And reasonable can be defined as two to three minutes.
In addition to the lack of glow and lack of concern from fellow members of the bathroom line, I did not realize that it would become difficult getting in and out of SUVs, which seems to make my mom laugh regularly, nor did I realize that I would fall in love with my loofa on a stick. This was a truly ingenious invention. It was made for the pregnant woman. I believe that more things should be attached to sticks.
The most mind-blowing epiphany I have had though, is that the world is divided between those who have children and those who do not. I no longer belonged to the latter. I now drive the speed limit, or at least a lot closer to the speed limit. I would never take off to Mexico for another 24-hour birthday celebration. Certainly, I would never resume the former lifestyle I previously had.
While I have not yet changed my own son’s diaper nor have I heard his first words, I have the full-blown symptoms of an overprotective completely over emotional mother. In fact, I am now scarily, my always loving, ever-vigilant mother.
I now understand how much she has loved me my entire life. And it’s overwhelming.
I now cry over completely ridiculous things (most recently the Folger’s commercials) and feel compelled to rip the head off any parents who do not have a warm enough jacket on their child.
God forbid anything comes on the news involving children, whether it’s a CNN feature of starving children in a third world country, or an article about the rape of a four-year-old girl in Bridgeport, for it has become physically painful to watch.
When the story broke about Tommy, the toddler who drowned in his own backyard in Trumbull, the empathy I felt for his mother was almost unbearable.
Just thinking about my baby, protected from everything scary and horrible inside of me, that I have carried for nearly eight months, being taken away by a swollen river, never to go to pre-school, never to play little league or go on a first date, is enough to make me sob buckets.
My parents weren’t crazy all of these years for giving me curfews that I thought were completely unreasonable when I was a teenager or not letting me go downtown New Haven when I was 15 years old. In fact, they probably gave me too much freedom in my life.
If I could do half the job that they have done as parents, which is truly the hardest thing someone can do in their life, I will feel accomplished.
