Ok, first thing’s first: Thank you everyone for your feedback on my last post. I posted a status that night (which basically ended up being a hybrid of all three suggestions) and it was amazing to get an such an outpouring of joy and congratulatory gushing. It made me feel normal for a few minutes, which was nice.
Now back to the post at hand.
*Warning: Pregnancy complaints ahead, please feel free to skip if you’re not in a good place right now.
Going on week three of bed rest, and today was just lovely – cramping, spotting, and to top it all off a killer sinus headache. I have become a zombie holed up in a blanket fort. I’m not liking this one bit.
I spend almost all day every day worrying. Most couples would be shopping for strollers, or at least feeling confident enough to go to a maternity store by now. Something.
Not me. I’m stuck in bed in an anti social haze.
And I’ve realized something. There have been a few BFPs in the blogosphere this week, and when usually these announcements either had me slightly jealous or absolutely ecstatic, I now find myself feeling SORRY for them. I just think, “oh crap, they’ve got a hard nine months ahead, poor things.”
Guys, I’m sorry – but I hate being pregnant. I despise it. Every day I’m either on bed rest, feeling sick, or just worried that something will go terribly wrong.
Pregnancy is not unicorns and rainbows, it’s a means to an end. And right now the only thing keeping me relatively sane is trying to visualize our little baby boy.
But that also makes me attached, and worried. And therefore even more miserable.
That’s why I’ve barely been blogging. All I can wrap my head around is just how freaking miserable this whole situation is.
Go ahead, curse me and hate me for saying it. It’s ok, I already pretty much hate myself for feeling it.
Urgh. (Hopefully) 22 weeks to go. (Please please please stay in there shmaby boy).