Dear Beautiful, Expectant, First Time Mother,
As I write this post, I myself am fresh out of my OBGYN’s office, hopped up on decaf coffee (ha!), and digesting the fact that we are going to have a fairly surprising new little person joining our family of four come summertime. Whoa.
It’s not my first pregnancy rodeo, that’s for sure. As number three, this time around is not totally unlike the others – no wicked surprises or massive shocks physiologically speaking. Although I must say that, looking back now, each subsequent pregnancy has been a little bit harder on me (well, hello there 30); filled with more intense morning sickness, exhaustion, and consequently the need for a little bit more medical intervention each time.
For example, those pesky little hormones that had served me so well the last time or two, are now totally out of whack, leaving me needing to supplement some and simply endure others. If you need confirmation of this, just ask my husband — you’ll likely find him hiding from me and my mood swings, in a far off hallway closet somewhere.
As I begin to close in on the end of that trying period of time where you feel your absolute worst in pregnancy (shout out to the first trimester), I find myself glancing backwards for a moment or two, and realizing wholeheartedly, that my very first pregnancy wasn’t actually all that bad. In fact, it was flipping awesome. How could I not have seen that at the time?
Nowadays, my daily preggy trials include a three and half year old who managed to cotton on in a frighteningly quick manner to the fact that when momma is throwing up in the bathroom, the rest of the house is inevitably primed and wide open for mischief of various sorts. I’m rather proud to say that by 10 weeks I’ve perfected the art of shouting out a slew of warnings and threats, all designed to intimidate the very young among us (infinite time outs, imprisoned toys, and the promise of zero sugar glazed snacks for, well, for forever), in between heaves. That is no mean feat, let me tell you.
Gone are the days of feeling a tad queasy and so retreating to a day of PJs and Netflix binges in bed, until my energy crept back up to a suitable level with which to fetch myself, and only myself, a snack of some sort. And no one stole that snack. Or ate the last of it before I could get to it. Or lied about eating it, so I’d began to question my sanity and my apparent proneness to secret eating. I’m just saying.
