Last week was my last week of work before going on maternity leave. A group of female colleagues I hadn’t seen in a while saw me in the front office and were shocked at how big my midsection has gotten in advanced pregnancy. They were gushing over my bump and told me I looked fabulous. One told me that pregnancy suited me. I just smiled, never quite feeling comfortable in these situations. On the one hand I feel like I should graciously say thank you and take the compliments whenever they come, but on the other hand I find it hard to resist the urge to blurt out how fat and pathetic I feel.

I think pregnancy hates me. I spend 60-70% of it feeling sick and throwing up, and then in the final descent I feel huge and achy and tired. I always thought pregnancy didn’t suit me (which is why #3 is the last!). I also think I gained too much weight this time, although my doctor and everyone assures me I look good, but in my mind the numbers on the scale don’t lie. And my pictures. Gawd, I hate my pictures.

I’m ready to be done, needless to say.

It does sort of remind me about perspective and my own demons. While I’m bemoaning my orca-like self and feeling like a slug, I never thought that other people may be admiring how I carry pregnancy and continue to get things done in the various zones of my life. Where I find myself never doing enough and not keeping up with what I think I should be doing, others are wondering how I’m able to do what I do.

That part feels good, I guess.

But mostly I’m just ready to be done. Ready to move toward my previous sense of normalcy.

My writing is suffering. I’m plugging away little by little, but again, the demons in my head are whispering not enough, not enough.

I’m trying to ignore the voice. Between fatigue and taking care of two other children, I’m trying to get a grip on perspective and be realistic about what I can get done.

One step at a time…

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