What to expect from others when you’re expecting.

Dear Nobel Prize Selection Office, 

I’m writing to you with the solution to teen pregnancy. A solution I can personally guarantee a 100% success rate if implemented. 

Collect an ensemble of teen girls and pile them into an arena, then, allow me to waddle onto the stage. 

Problem solved.

Sincerely,

Pregnant Dee on the bathroom floor xx

I lay strewn across cold bathroom tiles in the 8^th hour of a stand-off with my vomit reflex and barely had the energy to lift my face to the toilet bowl. I felt that at that point I needed to reserve what little vivacity I had left and direct it towards cursing at Soccer Hubby.

No, this wasn’t month 1… it was month 7. Of round 2. And it was wearing thin.

It was then, in what would become the 10,944^th hour I had dedicated to pregnancy vomiting/reflux/backache (had a lot of time to count whilst on the floor) that I concluded I hated everyone in the world. 

It wasn’t just others that weren’t pregnant that I despised, it was also the ones that were and looked like glowing baubles of positive vibes. I wanted to pop them like balloons.

If you were one of those women who experienced no sickness and who didn’t look like you’d been partying with vampires, congratulations, you’d found yourself a place on my ‘Jealous of’ list right alongside Emily Blunt. 

This bitter, bitter, attitude forced me to catalogue the behaviours of those around me. That way I could at least hate them via category and savour some energy.

In doing this it became overwhelmingly clear that a woman’s pregnancy journey starts long before bub is in there pressing against her bladder. I found that my Oh-So-Sunny outlook had kicked off some time around our wedding reception and snowballed:

1.       Relative expectations.

“So will you be wanting kids right away?” relatives were asking. In the months that followed our wedding all I’d have to do was sneeze and people would call in a flurry of “I heard you’re sick, are you preggers??”

The expectation society had of courtship-wedding-babies was fine, but being on 24/7 bump watch was a nightmare. Especially considering that behind closed doors, we were desperate to fall pregnant…but weren’t.

(Don’t expect anyone to know what you’re thinking. They haven’t a clue.)

2.       Pregnant friend expectations

When months ticked by and turned into 12, something magical happened. Everyone else in the world excluding me announced they were pregnant. By the time my 5^th gal pal smiled with glee and burst with the news, I didn’t know if I’d have the energy to bounce about in celebration without falling into a pile and sobbing.

It’s not that I wasn’t happy for them, I of course was over the moon. But, I was also more jealous than I had ever been in my life. Every time I went to the shops, it felt like I was drowning in a sea of prams and baby slings.

“When will it be my turn?” I begged the universe, “when??”

(Don’t expect everyone else’s ovaries to collectively strike in your honour. They won’t.)

3.       Personal expectations

Within the first few weeks of dating my future Soccer Hubby, I knew that not only did I want to have kids one day, I wanted to have his kids. Replicating his nurturing personality seemed like a no brainer and I wanted nothing more in the world.   The pressure I put on myself to fall pregnant was insurmountable and caused countless tensions.

Watching that little blue line laugh at me was a monthly routine until one very early morning, it found a friend. I cooed in a lowered voice towards them as if there was a chance I’d frighten them away. 6 tests later, they were still all paired off and positive.

I skipped about in my P.J’s as if to salute this pregnancy ship on its maiden voyage, but in place of cracking a bottle of champagne over the hull, I buckled at the knees and threw up. And then threw up again.

And then again.

By week 9, in the same position and 10kgs lighter, I thought to myself ‘Kill.Me.Now’

(Don’t expect to be happy about it the entire time. It’s ok to hate vomiting. And reflux. And sleep deprivation. Don’t feel guilty for feeling miserable.)

4.       Expectations of other’s pregnancy stories

“I really found that it made my hair so shiny” said one friend as she rocked from side to side with her 3 month old, “and I really was only sick for a day or so.”

I tightened my grip on the roll of Quickease solvents and wondered if it would be possible to poke her in the eye with them and somehow waddle away before she could catch me.

“The birth however, that was terrible. Tore from rear to ear and peed every time a contraction hit.”

“Oh.” Said I, and wondered if I’d be able to reach my shoes and poke her with them instead.

(Don’t expect people to sensor stories in sensitivity. If anything, they’ll appear to be torturing you on purpose.)

5.       Expectations of judgement

When I finally hit the third trimester with my first pregnancy, I had put on a total of 5kgs. Under a baggy shirt and jeans, I barely looked pregnant. Just like I’d eaten way too much over Christmas and let myself go. 

Paired with the other flourishes of pregnancy side effects, it seemed like very little compensation. If anything, I hated being little just as much. Other friends were having beautiful belly portraits taken to showcase the plump curves. Shirtless, I just looked like a distorted clump of playdough that had been left out in the sun.

“Oh, you’re so smaaall.” Random participants would weigh in with. 

“Are you working out? You know you shouldn’t be working out,” said one.

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” said another.

It was impossible to please anyone.

See, I do a strange thing when I’m feeling low or self-conscious. I wear very high heels. I guess it’s the same as narky frogs puffing out their chests. In retaliation to belly comments, I resorted to clicking about in the highest shoes I owned. 

Pregnancy had taken a toll and a half on me and if I was going to die (and I seriously felt I might) I was going out in a pair of killer spikes. Even if I was only able to wear pyjama bottoms, they were going to be accessorised. 

“Typical.” said one.

“That’s ridiculous,” said another.

“Bite me.” said I.

(Don’t expect to like what people feel they need to comment on. If you feel the need to slap people, it probably just means you’ve hit the third trimester.)

6.       Expectations of aftermath.

To date, I now have two beautiful girls. I’ve found peace with the fact that I hate pregnancy (seriously, give me labour over pregnancy any day), because I know those days are behind me.

Hindsight is a blissfully ignorant tool and allows me to constantly quip ‘Oh isn’t it all such a small price to pay in the end?’ (Well, it is.)

Watching Miss Moo sleep or Miss Boo kick the ball around with her Daddy almost causes my uterus to sigh.

Having said that, there is always someone clueless enough to remark “don’t you want to try for a boy?” 

No. No I don’t.

For starters, matching dresses wouldn’t have looked nearly as impressive on a boy.

Plus, any guy who has one Daddy’s Girl will gladly opt for another. 

So as I think back to those nights lying sleepless, aching and regurgitating on the bathroom floor, I challenge anyone to ask the question “when are you having another?”

I will gladly use my ovaries as a bola.

(Don’t expect the questioning to end. It never will.)

In closing, unless you expect Soccer Hubby to sprout a uterus or produce mammary glands… I don’t think I have anything left to expect.