A sense

Today was gorgeous outside. Hot even. I quickly wished I had on flip flops instead of sneakers and by the baby's rosy cheeks, she wished I had put her in shorts rather than jeans.

After I worked and Mike came home, we went to pick up Charlotte from her dayhome and headed to the local reservoir playground. She played for awhile and then we went for a little walk. Mike was the chaser of all things child, and I was the waddler, a few paces behind, carrying the blankie she insisted on having, her juice, and the camera.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still a little bummed despite the wonderful weather. I was hoping it would lift my spirits. I spent the day working in the bright kitchen, windows open, the smell of daffodils in the air that moved the hair across my face with each breeze. And still, I felt this deep sense of disconnect, a sort of sadness. I can no longer chase my child. Picking her up sends sharp pains into my hips. Getting in and out of a chair feels like I am being pulled apart by angry ancient Roman horses. When I walk, each step pulls at the already taught ligaments under my swollen belly. In the middle of the night, I roll over in my sleep and am jolted awake by fiery stabbing knives in my pelvis.

And though pains during pregnancy are expected and part of life, I am still left with this melancholy. I so loved being pregnant with Charlotte. Each new day I felt more and more alive, like I was the most powerful being. I was creating and nurturing a life. It was an awe-inspiring time in my life. Other than delivering early, the pregnancy was smooth and uneventful. I loved taking walks, I loved people asking me about my little girl, and what were we going to name her? I loved being her vessel. It made me happy.

This time, however, for whatever reason you choose to believe - I am carrying lower, I am bigger this time, I have a toddler to chase after, I have less time to rest - I am truly in an uncomfortable pain all day. To the point where normal daily activities like sweeping or showering are harder and I move slower. I am a fast-paced high-energy (some would say high-strung) person, and being slowed sucks. Then because I am not sleeping well, I am so tired and filled with a sense of dread that this is how it's going to be FOREVER, that it will never change, that I could just cry in my brownies.

There is this looming ache inside -- this question of how in the hell I am going to get through this? How can I do this for three more months? If I am in this much discomfort now when my baby is only 2 pounds, how bad is it going to be when he is full term? I so wanted to enjoy this pregnancy, to revel in it the way I did with Charlotte, and yet I find myself quickly wishing for the end, to just get to 37 weeks so I can beg my doctor to just get this kid out of me. And with so much more to go, it leaves me with such despair that I feel so guilty. How can I not be so abundantly thrilled that I have the ability to carry a baby? When so many others would give everything they have to feel my aches and pains? How can I possibly be so ungrateful?

I am sad because I feel I am letting people down. Mike asks me how I feel all the time and my retorts are always short. "Tired." "Sore." "Uncomfortable." He says in passing, "You were so much happier last time," not intending for it to sting, or said with anything other than love, yet leaving a welt on my already sore soul nonetheless. I feel like I am letting Charlotte down each time I put on the TV because I can't bear the thought of getting off the chair and onto the floor to play with her. I feel like I am letting this baby down because I don't love carrying him the way I loved every second of my pregnancy with his sister. I feel like I am letting myself down because I am letting this get to me. I am letting it bring me down.

I keep hoping it's because of the position he is in, that maybe when he decides to flip out of breech, there will be less pressure. Less feeling like I am being expanded from the inside at a rate my bones and ligaments can't handle. Because I don't like me this way. And I worry that soon, people around me will start to not like me this way either. Pain and discomfort are permeable. People feel them in others. It can wear you down and make you angry, even if the pain is not your own.

I know this feeling will pass. I am loved. And well-taken care of. But for now, I am sad. But this is what keeps a smile on my face each day. This and knowing that, soon, there'll be one more set of rosy cheeks to love: