Last week, while sitting in my cubicle at Beige, Inc. and nearing the end of my morning cup of coffee, I felt a new sensation in my abdomen -- a gentle but distinct prodding from the inside out. It felt like one of my organs (maybe my spleen) had gained sentience, gone rogue, made its way close to my belly button, and was now attempting to locate an escape hatch. It felt like how a bubble looks when it rises rapidly and confidently to the waterline, ready to bust through the surface tension.
Until now, the fetus hadn't really made itself known. I'd only felt preliminary flutters, which were difficult to distinguish from run-of-the-mill intestinal burbles. (The official term for this barely-there fetal movement is "quickening," a midwifey sort of word that makes me feel a little like a loaf of bread.) The suddenness and decisiveness of that morning's kick (or elbow throw) took me by surprise. Even more than the ultrasound photos, or my slowly inflating balloon-belly, this struck me as proof that pregnancy is creating a second person, with independent needs and impulses, hanging out inside my first-person.
It was cool and eerie and satisfying. Since then, I've continued to greet these little spleeny karate moves with semi-amused wonder.
Guys, I'll be honest: pregnancy has mostly been a drag so far. Don't worry: I'm also excited and grateful and nervous and fascinated. Having a baby is something that GR and I hoped for and want. But when it comes to the bodily experience of being pregnant, my rating is "Meh," possibly even "Bleh."
My core complaint is totally predictable: Pregnancy is a nonstop cavalcade of physical limitations. There's the standard reduction in food and drink options. Knockout fatigue during the first few months had me going to bed at 8:30 and dragging GR home early from social things. I sleep worse and wake up with aches. After politely avoiding me during my teenage years, acne is now slapping me in the face. In a more recent development, intermittent sciatica has sent sharp, shooting pains into my right butt cheek.
Before getting pregnant, I didn't realize 1) how much of my week was organized around exercising, and 2) how much satisfaction and joy I derived from not merely working out, but working out hard -- sprinting, punishing my heart rate, pushing myself a little further past the limits I'd previously set for myself. These days, it's harder for me to find the energy to exercise, and when I do, the workouts are boring by necessity. (Can't let that heart rate get too high; don't want to risk an injury.) It speaks to a larger inconvenience: practically anything I do these days requires a moment or two of second-guessing: Is this safe? Is it advisable? Should I not? My world feels shrunk.
I know: Complaining isn't interesting, nor is it a good look. I have enough perspective to acknowledge that, at worst, pregnancy is nudging me into experiencing a decidedly mild form of temporary disability, and my petulance at these little-league inconveniences deserves, at best, a very small violin. Mine are the naive gripes of someone who has enjoyed ongoing health and luck. Complaining also isn't productive. (Rather than griping about feeling hemmed in, I could be doing more to redefine the boundaries around me. Surely there are different hobbies I could be pursuing to replace the canceled ones, less dull forms of exercise. (Also, certain veteran moms would like to ominously let me know If I think things are hard now, just wait until the baby arrives -- doomsdayish proclamations that are never as helpful as these women seem to hope.))
It's fine. Things are changing, and I'm figuring it out. (GR, too.) In the meantime, I treasure moments like last week's debut karate demonstration. I'm genuinely delighted by what I like to imagine is my little Rogue Spleen trying to help us out in this process, making the transition easier by asserting its presence, reminding me of the fact that we're in this together.
