…is posting a bump-date photo. Call me a big, fat hypocrite. Just a few weeks back, I was singing a different tune, telling Martin that we were NEVER going to take any photographs of my ever-expanding belly (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 this 40-week journey. Um, no? Wait, how about we take an hourly photograph to ensure we are sufficiently obnoxious enough? We can make a Buzzfeed-worthy craptastic time-lapse of 7,000 hours of one pale person’s growing stomach.
No. I just can’t. I can’t handle 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 are going to take 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, and other Pinterest-y pregnancy rituals that seem to jazz a lot of pregnant women. They don’t 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 of sacred events in one’s life. For me, it’s a means to a new beginning.
Don’t get me wrong, my gratitude is considerable. And this pregnancy is the most important thing in my life and a necessity for me becoming a mother. But the act of receiving the baby and nurturing him starting day 1 and for a lifetime is the portion I will choose to sanctify. I just don’t know what I’m doing here, being all pregnant. Pregnancy didn’t really want me, for so long, when I ached for her so bad. And now she’s here, and I’m a little pouty. I try to thank her often, for giving me the little boy growing inside me. But I don’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. They’re hurting something fierce. My heart is with them. And with my boy. I’m split in two camps: the infertile community and now the big P one.
Hope both will have me.