I Fucking Hate Being Pregnant

This weekend I was on Lake Michigan with extended family and they could tell I was a bit off, so they offered to watch my toddler so I could go for a solo stroll. It was a calm, peaceful, perfect morning in the woods and I tried to really center myself and channel positivity. Reaching down to rub my 31-weeks bump among dancing sunbeams & buzzing bees, I attempted to feel the ~magic~ of the moment and muster up some gratitude. Instead I felt like a bloated penguin with asthma waddling along as lightning bolts flashed up my groin. My low morale wouldn't budge, not even when I saw a squirrel drag a whole-ass croissant up a tree which would normally floor me. The truth is, I'm flat-out miserable. I fucking hate being pregnant and the thought of two more months of this is dragging me down.

There's been no etherial glow, I don't feel feminine or empowered, and not one bone in my body wants to document what's been, quite frankly, a goddamn awful time. Meanwhile the algorithm feeds me #momfluencers, friends and acquaintances celebrating with gorgeous maternity shoots where it appears they've transcended to some greater understanding of life, and though I'm genuinely happy for them I can't help but throw a pity party for myself (classic!) in comparison. Ever my own worst enemy, I tell myself I must be defective or my body's not really cut out for this like theirs must be. 

I don't want to lay nude in a golden, Victorian era, claw-foot bathtub full of milk surrounded by rose petals. I don't want Pat holding my belly in a wheaten field staring defiantly into the camera as if to say, "That's right everyone - my jizz did this." I don't want to stand on a marshy dock at sunset in my underpants. In fact I don't really want to remember this part at all. 

Carlos Pascual. Getty Images.

I don't want to remember it because I've never felt worse both inside and out. Thanks to my body's souped-up, clown-car of hormones, my unibrow & mustache are growing at 10x the normal post-30s rate (and buddy, you don't wanna know about the carpet matching those drapes, especially since I can't reach or see under my (extremely itchy) belly with the razor anymore). My boobs - already completely shot from the first go around like two sad, deflated water balloons - rest on top of my bulging stomach forming one, long, under-boob line. My constantly mega-sore nipples are the size of hubcaps. I want to stomp around like Veruca Salt demanding my golden eggs (sweet tits). Where are they?? I was told there would be amazing yabbos, damnit. Meanwhile my 2.5 year old son hangs on wondering why I can't play with him like I normally do, which makes me feel bummed for him.

This is us on a park bench just yesterday after I told him my back hurt too much to go down the twirly slide again. 

Shutterstock Images.

Nightly heartburn sends waves of lava coursing through my pipes and no amount of Pepcid or sleeping at a 90 degree angle in the LaZBoy can tame it, I haven't been able to take a proper dump in months (I want a prego-lady coat-of-arms made with the slogan "Every Poop, A Victory" in Latin over it), my blood count, hemoglobin, platelets & hematocrit (??) are low so I'm taking iron pills that make pooping even harder (I keep waiting to shit out a lil steel beam or a nice cutlery set), I've been caught in a cycle of acute bronchitis for over a month that's had me coughing to hard for so long it feels like I've broken my ribs & back in a mild car accident, I can't sleep at night because every move I make hurts and the restless leg syndrome of the third trimester has set in, and worst of all - and heads up, TMI ALERT - my pelvic floor is collapsing under the weight of my shuffled innards/damage from the first birth so all day long it feels like all my lower organs are about to flop out of my vag… Like there's literally muscles pushing through my crotch between my hip bones that I can squish back up there like an overflowing tub of Nickelodeon Gak. 

After you get done vomiting down your shirt you might be thinking, "1: Oh God why did I read that? I'm never going to be horny again, ever. And 2: That sounds like something you should go talk to your doctors/OBGYNs about." 

Pal, I'm a squeaky wheel and I make them well aware. I hobble into an appointment with a CVS receipt-length document containing all my ailments. Last week when I was there I cried as soon as my doctor asked how I was doing because I'm so afraid of my own vagina's future. (Again, huge shoutout hormones. Thank you hormones! You're great hormones! haha)

So yes, they know their #1 lunatic patient is struggling and I'm sure they really care, but there's only so much medication you can take while prego and - in general when it comes to pregnancy - the main consensus among the medical community appears to be, "Ah unfortunately that's all pretty normal. It's a real stinker but the baby's healthy so hang in there." 

It's just wild to be like, "Hey, uh, not exaggerating here - my bladder, uterus and bowels are straight up fallin' through my bussy, Like I can feel those suckers with my hands." and they're like, "Yep, you'll have that. Them's the breaks, kiddo." 

Oh and hemorrhoids. This is going to kill off the remaining 3 subscribers to my Only Fans (@KatieMoneyGrabz) but they were already bad following birth #1, now they're 10x bad, and I imagine that after this next birth by butthole is just blown to smithereens forever. They need to make a Dude Wipes spinoff called Moms Who Blew Out Their Assholes So Humanity Can Continue And Nobody Seems To Care But These Wipes Are One Small Comfort Wipes. I'd buy stock. :: Cue Team America Guy throwing up GIF again :: 

The only silver lining is that my doctor told me there's only a 3% chance I'll rip my taint again as badly as I did last time, so my shredded hole-bridge is tougher than Jordy Mercer's Rawlings glove or Chase Young's ACL. 

Kevin Dietsch. Getty Images.

And it's all such a mind-fuck, because I'm filled with a terrifying dread and sense of impending doom that I did not have with the first pregnancy (probably because despite trying my best to prep the first time I was completely clueless & ignorant about the hard parts ahead physically, mentally, relationship-wise, the gender imbalance in caretaking, financially, socially, the isolation, you name it).. And yet at the exact same time I also feel a crazy love/overwhelming yearning to meet the lil fella, and a desperation for him to be healthy & feel our love for him. Like I feel a kick & genuinely ache to hold him, and he is so wanted, but it also feels like there's a time bomb in my stomach and I'm going to be in discomfort and pain for a long, long time, if not the rest of my life.

Will I still be able to be the good, fun, attentive mom my toddler deserves? Will maternity leave make me feel like I'm floundering and failing creatively at the job I love, even moreso than I already am these days? What if I don't feel a connection right away because I'm already having a tough time or post-partum depression hits and I don't have the support I need? The guilt & fear these questions bring on is nutty.

Upon review of all this maybe I just need some Lexapro, Dulcolax and a solid nap more than anything else. It's just a lot is all I'm saying. And again, social media seems to be one of the main culprits in my turmoil because that realm paints such a glorious picture of pregnancy, childbirth & the infant stage (apart from also scaring the shit out of you for the sole purpose of selling you all sorts of expensive gadgets and knick knacks and expert baby hack PDF packets you don't really need when you're at your most vulnerable, but that's another blog). I WANT to be enjoying this, I want to relate to all the sappy posts that make the whole process seem pure magic, but overall I simply don't. Fast forward me, please. 

In the end what spurred me to write this is that "I fucking hate being pregnant" has been on repeat in my mind, but I haven't been able to say it out loud. And also that, selfishly, when I share my current laments on Insta, I do get some DMs from other pregos saying, "Oh my God yes, it's terrible," and so I know I'm not totally alone. Hearing others tell me they had the acute bronchitis for over EIGHT WEEKS plus a wide array of other issues, but they got through it, makes me feel like it'll all be ok. And mine is still considered a pretty good pregnancy health-wise; I'm lucky. So maybe I'm just rambling all this in solidarity if you're also pregnant and not loving it "like we're supposed to be" either. The DMers have told me it does get better and I'm hanging onto that for dear life.

On the other hand, if you're opposite of me and have been thriving during your motherhood journey I'm legitimately, truly so glad for you, and I hope you get the perfect shot. Guaranteed "like" from me over on Insta and I'll mean it, even if I have to swallow a little heartburn and jealousy to do so. 

MLADEN ANTONOV. Getty Images.