What’s the opposite of glowing goddess? That’s my pregnancy
Some days I feel like the up-the-duff version of Wonder Woman, other times I’m more Violet Beauregarde after she ate Willy Wonka’s magic blueberry. It’s the opposite of #blessed, writes Edwina Bartholomew.
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You are supposed to feel like a glorious goddess. “Glowing” is the term so often used to describe pregnant women.
Certainly, it’s a privilege, a joy and a marvel to bring new life into the world, but at the same time I can’t help feeling beached as, bro.
I’m five months in. Mothers out there will be quietly smirking to themselves. Just wait, they’ll be saying. She still has the swollen ankles stage to come. Her legs will disappear below her belly and soon she won’t be able to reach her feet or her bag or her husband over the mountain of maternity pillows. Next, she will lose her waist, her freedom and her sanity.
That is still to come. Right now I find myself in limbo land between the usual me and the next stage of life.
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I had visions of being Meghan Markle pregnant; cute little outfits, pre-natal yoga and that hand always protectively placed on my rotund little bump. Turns out, I’m a little more Amy Schumer pregnant; stretch marks out, maternity undies on and breast pump on order. The only time I find myself holding my belly is when I’m afraid my pelvic floor will give way.
To add insult to Instagram, social media keeps on feeding me the impossible version of pregnancy. Well, it’s clearly possible for some ladies, but no good for me.
These smokin’ hot baby mammas pop up on my feed with their thin legs, round little protrusions and perky breasts all wrapped in a cute little sun dress available for the sweat shop price of just $25 plus free postage. Jealous? You betcha.
When the obstetrician tells me all is on track, I do breathe a sigh of relief. I am incredibly fortunate to be growing a healthy, hopefully happy, chubby little baby. That’s how I feel most of the time, but I’d be lying if I told you I felt fabulous around the clock.
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Being on TV probably doesn’t help. There is only so much stomach I can stuff into my spanks and there are surprisingly few maternity clothes that say business on top, reproduction down below.
It’s like looking in a full-length mirror for an extended time each morning except my reflection appears in other people’s homes. Some days I feel like the up-the-duff version of Wonder Woman, other times I’m more Violet Beauregarde after she ate Willy Wonka’s magic blueberry.
The best piece of advice I was given at the very beginning of pregnancy was a warning that I’ll get lots of advice, and I should ignore most of it. I was prepared for that, but not fully ready for the impact of the well intended words of strangers.
Someone at the supermarket asked if I’m having twins. Another helpful somebody suggested I must be having a boy because I’m carrying behind (translation: my arse has grown out the back at a faster rate than my bump out the front).
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My husband even joined the chorus with, “Whoa, you are really pregnant now”. I burst into tears. Poor fella. He was dumbfounded. He meant it as a compliment, a good sign, a wonder of nature. He thinks it’s brilliant, and below the surface of my superficial thoughts, I know it is too.
My friend, Heidi Anderson is about to pop in a few weeks with her first baby. She just posed for a fabulous Demi Moore style photo shoot in the nude. There she is in a field, fur wrapped around her shoulders with her bump proudly on display. It’s fabulous.
Like me, Heidi isn’t a size six. She admits she has struggled with the transformation of her body. She went out and panic bought pregnancy outfits that she only wore once. Her first and last trimesters have been a roller coaster ride from the vomiting to the dry heaving to reflux, indigestion and back again. Now, as she reaches 38 weeks she has settled into her body and is loving herself sick. The pictures are phenomenal and clearly liberating.
I’m inspired. I might just do the same. You’ll never see them, of course. Few people will. They’ll be just for us, my little family. Hopefully they’ll help me get over myself and give me a chance to remember how glorious this time really was, heartburn and all.
So where to from here with a four months and a couple more kilos to go? Embrace it, I suppose.
I know I’m not alone here in feeling these insecurities. Over the last few months, I’ve discovered a secret club of women who are #blessed #grateful #overjoyed in public but quietly bemoaning the 30 extra kilos and three extra bra sizes in private.
We must remember it’s all for a higher purpose. Those bingo wings will cradle your baby, your ginormous breasts will feed your child and that giant arse will support you as you spend hours staring at the little miracle you have created. Hashtag blessed, indeed.
Edwina Bartholomew is a presenter on Channel 7’s Sunrise.