“Putting weight on is much more fun than trying to take it off.”-Chel Owens
Even I’m getting sick of my whining about child-bearing. In order to practice more positive thinking, I decided to look on the bright side of life. Here are my Top Ten Reasons Why Being Pregnant is Awesome:
10. I always have something to complain about.
If I’m sitting in company or just drooling at the kitchen table, I can pipe in with, “Had more heartburn today.” When meeting someone new and answering their, “I didn’t know you were pregnant. So, how do you feel?,” I have a ready-made list of maladies.
9. If I’m looking for social cred, all I need is a pregnancy or birth announcement.
Not that I pay for analytics, but my top posts on TwoFaceBook are announcements of child-bearing and -birthing sorts. Nine months of fun is a low price to pay for artificial popularity, right?
8. I get special treatment whenever I play The Pregnancy Card.
We purchased a used desk when I was just coming off bed rest in June. As I took the stairs one at a time in the woman’s house where we picked it up, I explained about my condition. She wouldn’t even hear of my helping to carry the desk out to the car.
Now if only I could get free food from restaurants for flashing my tummy, I’d be set.
7. I can sleep anywhere, at anytime.
Weeeelll, I actually can’t sleep at bedtime, lying down. Still, it’s a handy skill during school performances and boring conversations. And, because of Reason #8, the person talking doesn’t get offended.
6. I get to wear overlarge, comfortable clothes.
I expect that, by 30 weeks, no one will bat an eye when I walk around in a muumuu.
5. Literally any other woman who’s had a baby wants to give me a hug on a hard day.
One difficult day after dropping my oldest at karate, I drove to the nearest grocery store and miserably shuffled around trying to find an edible food item. I ended up at the deli counter staring morosely at the chicken tenders. After I explained my condition to the older woman working there, she said, “You poor dear. I remember those days!”
Pregnancy is a camaraderie sort of thing.
4. I do not have to diet.
Obviously I should not go overboard and assume that all-you-can-eat applies to every meal, but taking dieting off the table has been wonderful.
3. I do not have to exercise.
Yes, exercise is important. Yes, many women run a marathon whilst expecting. The general rule is to continue at the activity level one was at before impregnation which, for bed rested me, was not much. I’ve been thinking about it as the Couch2Bed Program.
2. I get an easy excuse for anything.
This is pretty much like #8, but applied all across the board. Dropped my glass? Forgot shoes? Late by two hours? Sorry; pregnant.
1. If all goes well, I get a baby at the end.
I’m just going to insert a few, cute stock photos here.
Not everyone can get pregnant, I know. For those who’ve done it and now wonder what they’ve gotten into, I hope I’ve given you a bit to think about besides heartburn as well.
Now, go take that nap. Eat that bag of chips. Forget that train of thought. You’ve got a baby to make!
Sunday, July 28: “Why the Heck Would Anyone Get Pregnant?,” a post discussing the reason for impregnating and birthing.
Monday, July 29: Wrote “Pregnancy Limerick.”
Tuesday, July 30: Shared an inspirational image from Pinterest about motherhood.
Wednesday, July 31: Recommended watering down juices.
Thursday, August 1: “Frugal Decorating,” a snippet about the unintentional side effects of decoration neglect.
Friday, August 2: Thought about life goals and housework in, “The Dishes and Other Evils.”
Saturday, August 3: Shared The Mum Bum‘s tweet about pregnancy.
Sunday, August 4: That’s today!
©2019 Chelsea Owens
About a year ago I began exercising every day.
I also had a content-writing job, was room mom for my second boy’s class, volunteered in our church, drove the boys to martial arts in the evening, thought it was a good time to go to counseling for me and for me and the hubby, and …I’ll bet you’ve skimmed to the next paragraph by now.
Because exercising was the priority, I wore my workout attire until I actually worked out. Sometimes I was still wearing black stretch pants, a sweat-wick shirt (also black), and the natural musk of one who has not showered past the time the boys were all in bed.
I was one of Those Moms wearing workout clothes at the grocery store.
Yesterday, however, I was not. It was Sunday and I therefore put on a skirt and sweater and went to church. I was still wearing that dressy casual getup after the boys were asleep.
-“I said, ‘the boys are all asleep!’ Now, QUIET!”
As I was saying, I had a skirt on when Mom Time finally rolled around. I sat on my bed to type on my iffy laptop and heard a ri-i-i-i-ip.
I then realized an important fact about my choice of outfits: I need versatility.
Problem is, I demand versatility even when it shouldn’t be present. Last Memorial Day, my mother was shocked that I was scraping mud and weeds from a relative’s grave marker (again) in my church clothes. I accompanied my husband to the RedBox in Wal-mart in my socks Friday night. Anyone spying on my carpool activities will see me sporting house slippers at pickup.
In my defense, they’re the really nice slippers with hard soles.
Besides ruining a new shirt because I was bleaching the white clothes, wearing holes in my socks, and using jackets as bathrobes; I don’t really mind my casual approach to clothes. I mean, obviously. Part of that is that I value comfort, part of it is that I’m too lazy to change, and 83.6% is how many small hands wipe indelible substances on me.
Surely I can’t be alone in this. Do you wear white after Labor Day? Socks with sandals? Yoga pants to the store? What’s your go-to garb?
“There’s something wrong with your hair,” my oldest says, making a face. Trying to elaborate, he adds, “It just looks terrible.”
These are the sort of compliments that hit a mother right in the self esteem. They come at the right moment, too: just when I’ve talked myself into some gym clothes and in front of the television. I also assured me that frumpy was suitably modest around the boys, that my sweat stains formed artistic patterns, and that I could erase everyone’s memories once able to shower.
My oldest looks back over at me. “It’s just …eurgh!”
What kind of sound is that?! I stop mid-crunch and bring a hand up to feel what offended him. I hit mostly sweat, and some stringy pieces that might be my thinning hair. Perhaps he’s simply not a fan of the whatever-pulls-hair-out-of-the-way ponytail, I reason.
I don’t have time, however, for the cute braids and non-sweat look the YouTube instructor is sporting. I can’t plank with hair in my face; can’t crunch with a lump of hair on the back of my head. If my son can’t handle Sweaty Troll Mom then that’s his problem.
“Thanks, Sam,*” I say, pretending the booming dubstep music has impaired my hearing. I continue pretending to keep up with the sadistic woman on screen.
I’m not one of those people who likes to exercise in front of others. I don’t like doing much of anything in front of others. Given that I can’t even urinate without an audience of fingers beneath the door, I often find just such unwanted attention during my YouTube Aerobics Time.
Sometimes I think to wake up earlier, but then remember that I screwed that plan up when I stayed up late.
Then I consider dropping them in The Pit at the gym, but recall that two of the four have aged out. I guess the daycare workers assume they’re old enough to watch themselves; the boys assume that they can punch each other unsupervised.
Other days I hang out in my gym clothes until my darling husband comes home …and then watch him crash on the couch. Don’t worry; he revives once dinner’s on the table.
*Sigh* What’s a girl to do?
Troll hair it is.
*I always change the names of my kids