Nobody finds the third pregnancy spectacular. There is no fanfare, no barely contained excitement from the grandparents-to-be, no doting looks from the husband you have gifted with this spectacular miracle. Nobody even acts surprised when you tell them you’re pregnant. The most common response is, “Again?!” Even the check-out girl at the supermarket glances at your two toddlers and raises an eyebrow at your tummy. “Really? A third?”
And I’m not saying that I need all that. I don’t need to be doted on and spoiled. I don’t need (or even want) baby showers for subsequent babies. I am not, and have never been, a delicate flower. That being said, I am a pregnant woman. I have an enormous midriff that I can barely bend over to get my socks on. I am carrying an extra twenty pounds on my abdomen everywhere I go (and let's not even mention the ladies that are riding right above that abdomen!). Is it too much to ask to have this extra burden acknowledged on occasion? Wait, not the ladies. The other thing. The cumbersome lump in the midriff.
Now, I’m wary of turning this blog into the incoherent ramblings of a desperate housewife. I don’t want to get on here and rant about my husband, especially because I know how good I’ve got it. That being said, some incidences (like dental surgery) lend themselves to humour, and I believe it would be an enormous oversight to neglect to share these occurrences. So...
We went to the pool last weekend (a couple days after the surgery). I had this moment on the way in when I realized that this pregnancy just does not count. As we were pulling the kids and the swim bag from the van, David grabbed four-year-old Marcus and carried him in without waiting for the other half of his family, while I grappled with an over-stuffed swim bag and a two-year-old that was pleading, “UP, mommy, UP!”. David, put the four-year-old down. Seriously. The twenty pounds of toddler plus the twenty pound belly plus the swim bag adds up to one pissed-off pregnant woman. I’m going to blame that one on the T3s honey, but this isn’t the first infraction. When I caught up to him in the foyer of the pool I silently dropped the swim bag at his feet and stomped off ahead. I’m pretty sure he didn’t even notice.
There are certain things that are common knowledge about pregnant women, and they still count, even if this is the third one. Here is a non-exhaustive list of things that people (like husbands) should already know:
1. Pregnant women should not be lifting and carrying heavy things. Like swim bags and toddlers at the same time. We should not have to retrieve the vacuum from downstairs when it is supposed to be kept upstairs. If you see a pregnant woman carrying a large, cumbersome package, help a mother out.
2. Pregnant women should not be unnecessarily exposed to stress. Do not bring up finances unless it is to say that our finances are coming along swimmingly. Unless there is some sort of dire situation that I need to immediately address, or if there is a plan I need to follow, or something that I can do besides stress out, don’t tell me! I’d rather be spared. You got that? Spare the pregnant woman!!! Don’t give me the old, “Honey, I’ve got some bad news,” unless you have some verifiable bad news and not just a series of ‘this could’ and ‘we might’ and ‘I’m not sure if’s. If it’s still in the maybe stages, it is not yet time to alarm the pregnant woman. Do your research first. And whatever you do, don’t drink red wine around a pregnant woman. That completely unavailable form of stress control is too much for us to observe and not partake in. I don’t mind the near-beer, but the de-alcoholized wine is really just grape juice.
3. Pregnant women like to be treated like delicate flowers. I know, this goes against everything you all know about me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I am not a delicate flower. But for now, let’s just pretend I am. If you see a pregnant woman coming up to a closed door, open it. If you know and love a pregnant woman, buy her flowers. Tulips are very inexpensive this time of year. Try to ignore those moments of pregnancy rage that turn the delicate flower into a raging case of stinging nettle. And just because she’s burping and farting a lot in this trimester, she’s still a flower. A beautiful, delicate, gassy and stinky flower.
I don’t want any special privileges here. I just want to occasionally glimpse the feeling I had when I was pregnant with my first. Like I was some special life-giving being, not just a huffing and puffing slacker that is no longer keeping up with the housework.
In exchange for these kindnesses, I will do my best to be the warm, nurturing life-bearer that I'm supposed to be right now. I will bake marvelous goodies at all sorts of random times. I will clean things I'd never thought of cleaning before while neglecting the daily chores. I will nest like the best--preparing the nursery, scrubbing the old baby supplies, and packing away toddler clothes. I will somehow get all the big totes out of storage and rummage through them, although I will not put them away after. Most of all, I will GROW A BABY INSIDE ME, and that is a pretty important job too.
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