In exactly a week I will be entering my third trimester. I wish I could say, like some lucky moms out there, that I am loving this pregnancy. The truth is pregnancy brings out a desperation from inside me that sometimes scares me and rather more often scares my husband. Instead of counting the days until I can see our sweet, perfect baby boy, I’m dreading the moment when my water will break or I will wake up to ninja contractions at 2 in the morning.
I’m just not ready, on so many levels. We have approximately three months left, but all I can think about is that it may be way less than that if our baby decides to become impatient. It could be a month from now. It could be tomorrow! At the time of this writing my bathtub walls are naked and sporting plastic sheeting because we had to rip out the tiles to re-route our leaking hot water line. My bathtub itself has seen better days; we have an appointment two weeks from now to have it refinished so that flakes of coating don’t come off under our feet every time we step into it. Even after the re-route, which cost $2,000 that we can ill-afford, our washer–which we had to replace 6 months ago–refuses to wash warm or hot loads; it needs some extra fiddling which my husband claims he can perform on his own at some near but as-yet-undetermined point in the future. “I’ll do it before the baby comes,” he promises.
It’s not that I don’t believe him, it’s just that to my hormone-intoxicated brain his words don’t make any logical sense. How can you know you will do it before the baby comes when we don’t know when the baby is coming? said brain screams silently at him. My poor husband, who is only trying his best to meet the unending demands of a belligerent taskmaster, does not understand why I would burst into tears at words which are supposed to be reassuring. I’m not sure I can explain it to him.
This morning, lying in bed with a backache and weighing the benefits of getting up against the benefits of sleeping for another 8 hours, I came to the realization that I’m probably a little bit depressed, and the reason was that I haven’t written anything meaningful in months.
One of the worse things about being pregnant has to be that I’ve basically stopped writing. I had such aspirations at the beginning of the year, all these writing goals that I was totally pumped about, that I was sure I would finally reach this year. Then I got that Big Fat Positive, and all that focus completely shifted to baby stuff. I have no less than six baby apps on my phone, and the hours I’ve spent drafting out messages on pregnancy forums kind of appall me–those hours could have been spent working on my writing. But I couldn’t stop. It’s like a switch flipped inside me and now my entire being is just pushing me to prepare for this thing that’s kicking me in the crotch every few hours.
But I’ve got to flip that switch back, because not writing is making me feel lonely and sad when, in fact, I’m surrounded by lots of people who love me. What I really miss is that voice in my head that makes the words flow from my fingers to the screen (or page, if I’m typecasting!). I missed myself.
I’ve resolved to reacquaint myself with that voice, which is why I’m writing this post. Hopefully I will continue to write. This website was supposed to be about me, about saying things and being heard and telling the truth, anyway. So that’s what I’m going to try to do–even as the baby fever threatens to take control again.