Luckily, my life is neither pretty nor perfect enough to even fake that lifestyle - which, I believe, is what most of these supposedly perfectly styled bloggers are doing. Faking it by not telling the whole story. They get angry. Their houses get dirty. They yell at the kids. Sometimes they wear sweatpants and fart. Loudly. Pinterest projects go wrong. DIY turns out to be a major pain in the rear. Divorce happens. Death happens. LIFE happens. I've never hidden my ongoing feelings about my miscarriage. My sometimes controversial ideas about motherhood. It's no secret that I can't stand having to work for a living. The photos I take of my food are uninspiring, to say the least.
So in that vein, I wanted to share a picture of myself at 29 weeks of pregnancy:
Yes, I'm smiling. I'm standing on a beach in Central America, for goodness sakes. It would be hard not to be smiling. But at the same time, I am feeling huge and unwieldy and my gosh, if this baby isn't twice as strong as P. ever was in utero. I said in a past post that I used to think that pregnant women who complained about the kicking or the Braxton Hicks contractions or the back pain were just being dramatic, but my tune has changed in the past few weeks. Suddenly, my stomach is the first thing to enter a room. If standing up doesn't give me back spasms, it's my round ligaments doing to seizing. Eating makes me nauseous. Laying down gives me heartburn. Bending over makes me feel... funny. My bump gets in the way when I'm doing the dishes or cooking or trying to cart P. through airport security. The baby's frenetic, Karate-like movements are irritating, not charming.
I have decided I don't care much for pregnancy. I'm neither glowing, nor an icon of "true womanhood." Instead, I am 155 pounds - and growing - of medical-grade symptoms. And that is anything but pretty or perfect. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be laying supine on the couch scrutinizing my toes. I think they're turning into Vienna sausages.