…is postingÂ a bump-date photo. Call me a big, fat hypocrite. Just a few weeks back, I was singing a different tune, telling Martin that weÂ were NEVERÂ going toÂ take any photographs of my ever-expandingÂ bellyÂ (as it was another ritual of pregnancy I was simply uncomfortable with). Granted, it was a reaction to his suggestion that we take a daily photograph to document thisÂ 40-week journey. Um, no?Â Wait, how about we take an hourly photograph to ensure we are sufficiently obnoxious enough?Â We can make a Buzzfeed-worthy craptasticÂ time-lapse of 7,000 hours of one pale personâ€™s growing stomach.
No. I just canâ€™t. I canâ€™t handleÂ that stuff.
Then something hit me a few days ago, and I caught a glimpse of my profile as I exited the shower, and I thought to myself, “This might be the only time I have a stomach like this.” This could be it. Will I regret not having photos of this moment, later? Probably.
So now, we areÂ going to takeÂ weekly images. And tuck them away somewhere in our memories or iPhones, for us to look at and smile at, way in the future.
I’d like to explore – and I hope you’ll bear with me – why I have such a knee-jerk aversion to things like bump-photos, Facebook updates, baby showers, andÂ other Pinterest-yÂ pregnancy ritualsÂ that seem to jazz a lot of pregnant women. They don’tÂ not jazz me…I think it is all very beautiful and positive.
But I’m also a person who is still a bit suspicious of pregnancy, and disinclined to elevate it to this hallowed ground ofÂ sacred events in oneâ€™s life. For me, it’s a means to a new beginning.
Don’t get me wrong, my gratitude is considerable. And this pregnancyÂ is the most important thing in my life â€“ and a necessity for me becoming a mother. But the act of receiving the baby and nurturing him startingÂ day 1 and for a lifetime is the portion I will choose to sanctify. I just donâ€™t know what Iâ€™m doing here, being all pregnant. Pregnancy didnâ€™t really want me, for so long, when I ached for her so bad. And now sheâ€™s here, and Iâ€™m a little pouty. I try to thankÂ her often, for giving me the little boy growing inside me. But I donâ€™t know how to worship her, celebrate her, plaster her effects on my waistline publicly, because there are too many people in my circle of friends who are waiting for her. Theyâ€™re hurting something fierce. My heart is with them. And with my boy. Iâ€™m split in two camps: the infertile community â€“ and now the big P one.
Hope both will have me.