Up to this point, I’ve pretty much avoided what was, to my husband at least, the most feared possible side-effect of pregnancy: hormonal imbalance. Having been known to crawl under the bed or into the back of my closet for a good cry/screaming fit during some of my rougher moments, neither of us quite knew what to expect when I got pregnant. Certainly not clarity and balance. But somehow, for awhile at least, that was what we got. Yes, I was gaining weight at an alarming rate, but my body clearly needed to take care of itself. Yes, my husband and I would barely see each other as I tucked into bed at 8 and he returned from band practice at 11 each night, but he should enjoy his free time while he could get it. Now, however, all rational explanations of the minor discomforts I bear each day have been blown aside by pure, unadulterated despair. Clearly now that I am pregnant my life is over. I am fat, and not just in my stomach where I’m supposed to be. Maternity pants can barely contain my ever-expanding girth. Television commercials and trash day alike elicit what seems to be the only possible response: a torrent of sobs. I turn thirty on Saturday–perfect timing for my new pity partying. Guests have been warned that any birthday gifts should not arrive in the form of onesies or baby-sized accessories, lest the birthday girl collapse into a pile of self-pitying goo before the candles are even lit.
I am trying to keep a sense of humor about it all. After all, no one likes a sad fattie.
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July 20, 2010 at 1:23 pm »
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