Brear beats back the baby-bearing blues

by Rachel Brear

I’ve always heard that everything changes in your thirties. Anytime you wrap up one decade and get ready to face the next it’s pretty scary although filled with wonder. I suppose I’m guaranteeing that my thirties will be much different than my twenties because not only will I be a wife, I’ll be a mom.

I’m in the fourth month or, in future-mommy-speak, my second trimester of my first pregnancy and life has already changed a lot for me. It all started after I realized my period was about two weeks late. For most women maybe a day or two late would have turned on some sort of light bulb that maybe things weren’t right, but not me. Oh no. In fact every month when my “Aunt Flo” came to visit I was in shock, like I was 13 again and wondering what the hell was wrong with me.

I’m really not very mature.

A few days later my doctor confirmed what the home pregnancy test had already told me.

“Yep, you’re about six week’s pregnant.”

For the most part being pregnant is a lot of fun. Sometimes it feels like I’m finally part of a club, that I can roam areas I always felt were off limits. I feel like I have the right to walk around Babies ‘R’ Us now since I have my special baby-bump VIP pass.

“It’s okay,” I say as they stop me at the door, “I’m pregnant.” I’m met with smiles.

My in-laws have been great, my parents and I are closer than ever and even my cats are curling up closer to me lately. But naturally with all good things there have been a lot of changes I’ve endured. Changing your lifestyle is hard enough but learning that every single thing you do to enjoy life is bad for you… well, that sucks.

I’ve had to say goodbye to my favorite ladies, the Betties, at Charlie’s Tobacco. They always had my Camel Lights ready when I walked in the door. I also had to say goodbye to my favorite pastime: drinking. Drinking gave me the liquid courage to dance like mad and sing karaoke, so I don’t do those anymore, either.

Thinking for myself is slowly drifting away because every person I talk to has great, free “advice” on how I’m feeling, how I’m going to feel and what’s best for baby. Which leads me to unwarranted advice, which even strangers chime in on. Personal space is a thing of the past since having a bump gives everyone permission to touch me and ask how much weight I’ve gained. My once perky boobs will be gone forever after the baby is born, when they’ll resemble melted Hershey’s kisses.

Sleeping all night is most likely a thing of the past since I wake up every half hour to pee. And I’m not going to be able to sleep until noon on the weekends like I’ve done for the past 10 years. I also won’t be able to eat cereal for dinner anymore.

Sometimes I cry at night when I think about all the fun things I’m missing out on and how nice a cigarette would be. I get sad when I think about wearing mom jeans and spelling out my cuss words. It’s really tough knowing that even though I’ve had so much time to grow up, I really have to do it now because my baby is counting on me.

I’m riddled with anxiety. I’m filled with elation. I’m scared of the future, yet I can’t wait to see what it will bring.

I see this… mass… growing inside me, pulling its very life from the stuff I’m made of. It both scares the hell out of me and fills me with awe.

I’m stressed. I’m lonely. I’m very hungry. All the time.

And in a way it’s something of a relief. There’s a baby coming – this much is true, and even though a thirtieth birthday also looms on the horizon, it doesn’t seem as big a deal as I once thought it would be.

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