Another week down and another week closer to the halfway mark. Knowing that the baby will be delivered by c-section a while earlier than its due date means that I can celebrate reaching the midway milestone sooner than I ordinarily would.
This makes me happy.
Pregnancy isn’t something that I feel I ‘do’ particularly well. Most of the time I feel that parenting itself isn’t something I do particularly well, but pregnancy, that’s a whole other thing.
Much as I wish I were a woman who glowed radiantly, who grew one firm bump in the right places and no jiggly ones anywhere else, and who merrily sailed through pregnancy declaring it a journey of joyful splendidness, I hate to admit that I’m not. People assume I must love being pregnant, having opted to experience it so often, but I actually don’t. Which isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate or revel in the wonderment it brings. I find it surreal and amazing and marvellous and a whole load of other astonishing adjectives but I don’t really find it enjoyable to actually do.
Headaches are fairly frequent recently, which I suspect is due to me probably not drinking as much as I ought to be. Drinking water, that is, though at times alcohol may be a welcome substitute if only it were recommended, which of course it isn’t so therefore is not an option. Tiredness is still prevalent, probably due to the on-going issue of low iron during pregnancy – something I have always suffered from and for which pill popping does nothing as my body doesn’t absorb it.
I make do instead with popcorn. Salted popcorn buy the big bagful or, if home-popped, big bowlful. Either way, size matters. And it needs to be a big amount. It is my evening treat which is
gorged upon daintily nibbled most evenings once the children are tucked up in bed. I excuse the quantity consumed by reasoning that it is a relatively healthy option with a calorific content far more favourable than popping those crisps you can’t stop. The salt, I reason, is probably my body’s way of dealing with dehydration. I really should drink more, I know.
The one major highlight of my week has been detecting the heartbeat with the doppler. About halfway through the last week I settled down on the bed, arranging my doppler, tissue and gel beside me. As I pressed the doppler onto my belly and watched as it sank further than I’d have liked, I expressed the anguish I felt directly to it. I whispering out to it, reminding it how its blancmange-like doughiness was once firm and toned. ‘I’m not angry,’ I told it, ‘just disappointed.’
Holding my breath as I moved the doppler around in search of the evasive sound I was seeking, it suddenly came. It was faint at first yet distinct, and its quick and regular whooshing was met with a relieved outward sigh from my mouth. This, I thought, is what pregnancy is really about. ‘It’s not about me,’ I told the whooshy-beat, ‘it’s about you. And that is worth all the belly-dough in the world.’