Dear Sir,
I betcha think I’m mad. You know, about the whole thing where you asked me when my baby was due, then I told you I wasn’t pregnant. Yeah, that.
Well, I’ll be honest. I can see where I might have lost my composure. After all, I’m just nine months postpartum, and I’m still in the throws of hormonal instability. I’m still crying over happy stuff, and getting angry over sad stuff. So yeah, that kinda question could get you stabbed in the eye with a pen or something. Not that it flashed briefly through my mind or anything.
I am actually still recovering from the literal war zone my body just went through in the past year, and it’s a battle you’ll never understand. Have you ever seen that show “Monsters Inside Me?” It’s kinda like that. Being pregnant is like having your body taken over by a parasite. Nothing is in your control anymore. Why else would you suddenly crave dill pickle chips with chocolate sauce thirty minutes after eating a peanut butter and cheese sandwich?
It’s true, though. Your sense of control over your own body is gone. You can’t sleep right, think straight, or securely hold objects. Your head hurts, your back hurts, and even your hurt hurts. You have bacne to match your new stache, rashes without cause, and a snuffy nose for no reason. When you’re pregnant you watch your ankles disappear, your nose spread across your face, and the numbers on the scale run away before your very eyes. The ever-expanding belly is just a small piece of the pie (did someone say pie?!). Rather than pie, though, it’s like a gargantuan wedding cake, or maybe an old Buick, and after fitting something like that under your shirt you might find yourself months down the road still sporting a little pooch, a little loose skin and excess belly fat, that strangers can quickly assume to be another budding bundle of joy. Yippee.
But I’m not mad. See, here’s the thing. I didn’t just surrender in a spirit of defeat my body over to the act of childbearing. I actually handed it over proudly, and while, sure, it was more than I originally bargained for, and I have the battle scars to prove it, if given the choice I would hit repeat twice over (which I did). The thing is I didn’t just carry a baby inside my belly, tear my abdominal muscles in two from such a wide load, or say farewell to ever being able to sneeze without the fear of peeing on myself. I carried a human life inside me, man. I was the vessel God chose to hold one of His precious creations, and if it left me with a couple of stretch marks and a pudgy tummy then so be it. I’m good.
I’ve lost the weight before, and I’m sure I will again. But just whatever. I’m not sweating it. I could drop back down to a size four, and I could do crunches all the live-long day, but I will never be the same. My body will never be like its pre-children self, but neither will my heart. In fact, if you could see inside my chest I’m sure my main organ would be sporting its own stretch marks and pooch since it’s grown three times in size since I had my first daughter.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is it’s okay, mister. I’m not expecting a child in my belly, but I am expecting an abundant birthing of joy in my life. Each day gets better in this thing called motherhood, and if I have to sport a little bit extra around the midsection I reckon that’s just fine.
But I do want to help you. Remember those hormones I mentioned? You say what you did to me to the wrong woman and those might be your last words. So in the future, even if the baby is reaching his hand out and waving, I’d probably stray away from asking a woman when she’s due. Just in case, you know.
Sincerely,
A Mother of Three
Laura Brose says
Love this!
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you.
amy says
Hahaha
Denise Bayer says
You are the best, Brie!! Here’s to the joys of motherhood!???
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Thank you!
Pat K says
perfect, and thanks for choosing not to assault the silly fool. I would really miss reading your Blogs 🙂
brieann.rn@gmail.com says
Haha! Thanks!