I had a baby this summer and my first thought the moment he was in my arms was… thank goodness THAT’S over.
When I found out I was likely to be induced, I was upset. Really upset. I’d done everything right, followed every recommendation made by my care team, jumped through all the hoops. Sure, I had a birth plan, but I didn’t want anything crazy. I just wanted to go into labor and have the baby when he was ready.
But even as I sobbed while arguing against the interventions they were recommending, I was realizing I was so, so tired of this pregnancy.
I hated being pregnant.
There, I said it.
On one hand, it looked like an uneventful pregnancy. Even a good, “easy” one like I’d had with my older daughter, who was born on her due date while I was laughing at something my husband said before my last push. I had no morning sickness. No swollen feet or ankles. No trouble sleeping. I hardly even put on any excess weight. The baby moved all the time so as soon as I knew she was in there, kicking and punching and doing backflips, my first-trimester anxiety subsided.
Google any list of common pregnancy side effects — I had basically none of them.
On paper, both of my pregnancies were a piece of cake.
But the second time around, I was miserable… I just didn’t want to admit it to myself. Sometimes it was unrelated to my pregnancy, like when I had the flu — and then the stomach flu, twice. I was exhausted beyond belief, more exhausted than I should have been, even with a 4-year-old and an active, full-time job. But I ignored it, reminding myself that this was my rainbow baby. I was so relieved to finally be pregnant with things progressing as they should. It took me until I was deep into my third-trimester to realize that I was absolutely, positively miserable. And I had been for a long time.
That first-trimester anxiety, where I was constantly worried that something would go wrong, had lasted weeks. The three viruses I came down with took up basically my entire second-trimester when I should have actually been feeling good. And on the threshold of my third-trimester, staring down a too-late gestational diabetes diagnosis — which also came with a last-minute transfer from my midwives to the high-risk clinic — my anxiety returned.
My blood pressure skyrocketed every time I walked into the doctor’s office.
I resented my body for not being as strong as it should have been. I hated how much I was hating my pregnancy. I’d been waiting for this for years. I was mad at myself — maybe if I’d exercised more, eaten better, meditated, gotten that massage, took more time off… it seemed like an endless list of things I could have done differently. Maybe some of them would have made a difference, but maybe not. There’s no way to know.
I was told I’d find out my induction date at my 36-week appointment. After a month of following my new diabetes diet and what felt like constant finger-pricks and insulin shots {none of which worked to get my blood sugar under control}, I had to admit that I was tired of fighting.
All I wanted was for this baby to be out of me, ASAP.
And five days after that appointment, he was. Induction wasn’t fun. My body was not ready to have a baby. It stubbornly refused to cooperate for almost 20-hours. But as soon as it got up to speed with what the doctors were telling it to do, my son was born within about 25-minutes.
In the end, I’m glad I didn’t acknowledge my misery for so long, because by the time I gave it a name, it was over within about a month. In the hours after he was born, I cynically thought, well I’m never doing that again. Now, three months later, I can’t imagine life without him. My recovery time was nothing compared to my first pregnancy. My energy levels bounced back thanks to the fact that I was sleeping better with a newborn than I was while I was still pregnant.
Will I do it again, knowing that I could face nine terrible months all over again? I’m not sure. It certainly seems easier to not. But I’m giving myself the gift of time to heal and recover until I know for sure.
But would I do this miserable pregnancy over again, knowing the outcome would be this tiny, awesome person, who I can’t imagine life without?
You bet I would. Piece of cake.
{Which I can eat again because I don’t have gestational diabetes anymore!}
Silver linings.
