One doesn’t need to be clinically diagnosed as schizophrenic to understand how it is to be a total loony. One just have to get pregnant.
At least, in my limited life experience of 28 years, I know that being pregnant makes a sane person lose her right state of mind – and will, most probably, do things that she won’t do as a regular, normal, well-functioning inhabitant of Planet Earth.
I get excessively emotional when I’m pregnant. I take note of every tiniest detail that is said and done. I remember promises from 20 years ago and words uttered even in passing three weeks after they came out of my husband’s mouth. I take offense when my children screams at me during tantrum episodes. I imagine flushing them in the toilet when they’re too noisy. I want to punch my husband in the face and make him bleed when he forgets to put the toilet seat up (or when he forgets to take out the trash). I demand that my husband go to massage school because my back hurts every single night from the extra weight I’m carrying and the only way to relieve that is a great deep tissue massage (which I seriously and passionately believe is best done by massage therapists I have met in Cebu, Philippines).
I can cry on cue. I cry when I see a kitten. I cry when I’m watching a stupid rom-com movie on Netflix (did you know that Julia Stiles and Freddie Prinze Jr. starred in a film called Down to You?!) and then think about locking up my daughter in a Catholic school run by nuns so she will be disciplined well. Of course I know that doesn’t work all the time but I just want to anyway).
And while the fetus in my overextended uterus is growing rapidly as I’m about to complete another homerun, my mind is racing with thoughts of projects to accomplish, degrees to further take up, cakes to bake, mountains to climb, countries to travel with myself and friends, paperworks to fill out, phone numbers to call, food to eat, Sherlock episodes to review, books to finish reading, Facebook profiles of people to block and delete, plants to buy and grow and water, make-up tutorials to watch, online courses to finally take up, exercise regimen to follow to lose weight, pork humba to cook and eat…
And these do not even make up a fraction of what I’m thinking right now.
When I’m pregnant, I can spend days inside the bedroom doing nothing but sleep, check social media accounts, sleep and then repeat this cycle.
Or… I can spend days outdoors staring at verdant greens, massive glacier formation, and people taking pictures.
I can be my nicest self when I’m pregnant.
But my most horrible self comes out during this period too. I’ll be cooking spinach-tomato-cheese omelet and in the middle of appreciating the colors green, red, and yellow being slowly cooked in the pan, I’ll scream, startling anyone who can hear the spine-tingling sound coming from my throat. I think some squirrels ran away – and never dared come back – when they heard my meltdown.
I don’t envy women who say that they love being pregnant because honestly, I don’t like being pregnant. It makes me more impatient. It makes me feel limited and helpless. I don’t like not being able to move quickly. While others may feel that being pregnant makes them feel more of a woman, there are times that pregnancy makes me feel that I’m becoming less of the woman that I’m meant to be. I know that’s because I want to do a lot of things at the same time and pregnancy limits me from doing all the things that I want to do.
Everything slows down when I’m pregnant. I hate it every time I hear my husband tells me to take it easy. I’m not one to take thing easy. I normally do things with subtle aggression (if you know what I mean). Two days ago, I read about a great opportunity for young people, my age, to pitch creative ideas on disaster preparedness and I thought: “Wow, I can totally do this because I’ve been thinking about this idea for two years now and it can be done…” And then, Baby No. 3 moves and I’m reminded that the program begins September, the very same month I’m giving birth.
I have been in denial all this time, I admit. I thought that things will be back to normal after pregnancy; that I can climb the many mountains I want to conquer, eat every single dessert my taste buds fancy, or wear the clothes I loved to wear in 2010. But the reality is: a lot has changed and a lot will change. I will never be the same person again; the ME & the I before pregnancy. I have never quite grasp the idea of letting go of some things in my life because I have kids. I won’t go all weepy here and tell you that since I’ve become a Mother, I have learned to sacrifice. Because, really, I am far from that and I’m not ashamed to let the world know that. I can be a selfish, cold-hearted, self-centered b*tch who only thinks of her wants and needs. I do have my moments when I look at my beautiful children and see how amazing they are. But to be 30 weeks pregnant with twin toddlers, a husband, and a home to manage, I turn into the most vicious character Disney has yet to see. Think Maleficent, Ursula, Jafar, Cruella Deville, Scar, Wicked Stepmother, Gothel rolled into one character and then sprinkle some zombie powder and a spoonfuls of Moriarty madness into the mix and you’ll have ME, the last person you want to deal with in this time of bulging bellies.
I will probably reread this post after I give birth and laugh about the relative absurdity of my thoughts and emotions while breastfeeding the new addition to our family. I may even deny writing this. Frankly, this won’t be one of those entries that I highly recommend my children to read, lest they think that they are unwanted.
But I hope to have them read this one day, someday, anyway and know that this self-centered, selfless, me-myself-and-I-should-come-first-because-I’m-a-princess kind of a woman has learned to close her eyes, breathe deeply, and embrace the fact that she is a Mother – and she will be a damn good one. I’m going to try to be a good one.
That’s a promise – and you can hold me to that.
For time and eternity.