Had my husband, Justin, known that just a few hours after our wedding I would be on a full-blown mission to procreate, he may have re-evaluated this whole marriage thing. I kid. I’m pretty sure he knew what he was getting himself into … at least somewhat.
I have always loved babies—they are the sweetest things, with the best smelling fuzzy heads—and as soon as Justin and I were married, I began having visions of us with our own little fuzzy-headed ones.
Anyway, as much as I wanted a baby of my own, the desire to be a cute pregnant lady was almost as strong. I remember the countless conversations with my good friend Stephanie, discussing the importance of continuing to wear high heels throughout pregnancy. I still strongly believe in this, by the way. See, I had this preconception about pregnant women. To me, they seemed like the glamorous 2.0 versions of themselves with their glowing skin, shiny, thick hair, cute clothes … I absolutely couldn’t wait to experience all of that and be equally as adorable!
Let’s fast forward to Spring 2008. I’m pregnant everybody! Yay! Any day now, I’m going to have that enviable pregnancy glow, Victoria’s Secret model-status luxurious hair, be prancing about town in my four-inch stilettos, and showing off my sweet baby bump. Umm, wrong. Yes, being pregnant is wonderful and exciting and the thought of a little life growing inside of me is enough to make me want to cry at times … but I am definitely not the Morgan 2.0 I had always envisioned. Here’s a little glimpse into a day of this little pregnant lady’s life …
Stumble out of bed after restless night’s sleep. Managed to make it through another eight hours of tossing and turning due to the most irritating form of cold/hot flashes I’ve ever experienced. Make up your mind, body! Do you want the three layers of blankets, or the tank top and panties? This is mighty frustrating, let me tell you. Not to mention the seventeen trips to the bathroom to pee (I don’t remember drinking fifty gallons of water, thank you), where it takes, on average, three full minutes to empty my bladder because it dribbles out so freaking loudly. TMI? Should I have given a disclaimer before trapping you into reading this? Well, I’m about to go into an in-depth anatomy discussion, so the weak have been warned.
Hop in the shower, take a look at my not-so-flat stomach, and realize I can no longer see it as easily as I was once able to. I have these … things in the way. Since when do you blow up two full cup sizes in a month? Seriously. It wouldn’t be so bad if the thought of their post-deflation state wasn’t so terrifying … I have a feeling these babies have hit their peak and are on a downhill slope from here on out. This saddens me—I’m too young to sag!
Look into the mirror to see thin, limp, lackluster hair and a brand new patch of broken-out skin (topping off the lovely albino-ness that is consuming my face, since I haven’t allowed myself to tan since finding out about my bundle).
Outfit choosing time … my favorite! Let’s see which of my tops makes me look least like a stuffed sausage. The one that I used to use as a lounge-around shirt because it was so big and comfortable? Fatty, for the win!
Breakfast … eww. May barf at the mere sight of eggs. Off to work.
Four hours, a dead co-worker (don’t mess with me, man), and exactly eighty-three trips to the bathroom later, the craving for Mexican food sets in. Yes, I can eat something satisfying for once! Move over, saltines … Oh wait, nevermind. Apparently the toilet enjoys burritos as well because it just stole mine.
Feeling good, feeling good. Was able to consume a cherry Slurpee, 5000 calories worth of salt and vinegar chips, and a Subway sandwich in one sitting without puking it up. Woman of steel, right here. A little Office, Lost, reading up on what variety of fruit my baby compares to today, and I’m off to bed.
And the cycle repeats.
I’m such the Debbie Downer, right? Gotta love these hormones. At least from the ankles down I look stylish, and that’s one thing that’s never going to change.