I am growing a human. It’s a weird thing to think about. In fact, if I think too hard about it, my mind stumbles across the imagery of an alien bursting out of a man’s digestive system at the beginning of Stephen King’s Dreamcatcher.
I’m sure the same imagery has been used over and over in other movies and books. Take your pick.
Not exactly pleasant.
Except, of course, this isn’t like that at all, right? This is supposed to be beautiful, a blossoming of the female form and psyche into motherhood. I am supposed to glow and discover my true purpose as I grow with potential and life. I’m supposed to bask in the attention.
Have you ever had the experience of telling someone you’re pregnant? It has to be one of the most awkward things in the world, for reasons I can’t quite put my finger on. Sure, it’s sharing the news about the life I’m going to bring into the world in approximately 6 months, a hugely exciting, happy change in our lives. But, for some reason, the only reaction I can imagine from people is a succinct, “Oh, that’s nice.”
Even worse, telling people I’m pregnant feels like an admission of weakness. It feels like I’m announcing how terrible I’ve been feeling in the mornings, nibbling on saltines and sucking on hard candies just to get through my morning commute. It’s like it’s an announcement about how my clothes don’t really fit anymore and how getting dressed in the morning has become torture. It feels like an admission that my life has slowed down, that I’m falling asleep on the couch by 8 pm, that I can’t even keep my eyes open on the subway.
Of course, no one knows these things until they ask. But it feels like those words, “I’m pregnant,” are ladened with them none-the-less.
For the record, I’m 14 weeks now. Yes, this post took me a full week to write. My life really has slowed down.