I’ll be the first one to admit that I am the worst kind of pregnant woman there is. For starters, I get sick to the point of wishing I was dead and find myself spewing complaints about the entire magical process at every opportunity. At the same time, I’m completely awestruck by pregnancy and birth and can’t seem to stop talking about placentas and colostrum and the awesomeness that is the female body. My husband is a lucky man, I know.
Thankfully for everyone else, I also become an anti-social sloth who would prefer to binge-watch medical dramas for the better part of a year to offset the acute anxiety of baby-making than all of the above. While some women may glow and ooze prenatal perkiness, I sweat. I wretch. I complain and meticulously count down the days until my belly returns to being a flabby sack of flesh. And then, I forget to buy groceries or make dinner and I’m all “Teehee, oops! Honey, can you pick something up?”