Over the course of the last ten days I have thrown up seven times, had three blood tests, been on a drip, been in emergency, had big bruises come up on the insides of my elbows to make me appear like a junkie, fainted, hardly eaten and not had enough energy to get out of bed some days. I’m not writing this post for sympathy. I’m writing this post, so that the next time I’m overwhelmed with love for babies and think I want another one, that I first take into consideration the nine month marathon (which in my opinion is too long) that is pregnancy.
I’m not a glower, I’m not going to be in a bikini down at the beach with a stretch-mark-free-tanned tummy. For some reason, thank you God, I come out in a stripey rash of stretch marks, and don’t only carry the baby in my belly, my thighs look like they’re carrying twins. Not attractive, my poor husband.
As soon as Indi was born I said to Thomas, ‘let’s do that again’, and he said to me ‘I think you’ve forgotten everything that’s happened in the last nine months’. He was right, it’s come flooding back to me now. And this is my note-to-self for the next time it happens.
I love love love the babies, I do not love pregnancy.