Unbearable: I Apologize, But I Simply Can’t Feel Sorry For Your Pregnancy Pains
Â Having a child is usually a happy time in a womanâ€™s life. Unfortunately,Â as we wait longer to have children, infertility and trouble conceiving can become a part of the family making process. Unbearable addresses these difficulties.
Listen, I can shop for baby clothes. I can help decorate a nursery. I’ll attend every shower your aunts, in-laws and best friends from college want to throw. I’ll talk about names and pre-schools. I’ll even tell you all about droopy vaginas, if you really want to know.
I’ve been pregnant before. I know all about the heartburn, nausea and achy boobs. I’ve completely been there on the swollen ankles. I remember sleepless nights because, “I JUST CAN’T GET COMFORTABLE!” I’m familiar with all of it, so you would think that I could discuss the pains of pregnancy like a normal human being. But I can’t. I’m really, really sorry. I just can’t.
I would pay thousands of dollars to feel like that special type of pregnant crap. In fact, I’m facing that very situation. I literally burst in to tears at the thought of only being able to sleep on my left side. Every month, when my boobs start to get a little tender, I think maybe, just maybe, this is my month. I keep that hope alive, until the truth comes out and it isn’t my month. I can’t tell you the insane number of times that I thought indigestion was a sign of upcoming bliss. I have phantom butterflies in my stomach. Really, I’m kind of a mess.
So every time I hear you complain about all those delightful pregnancy symptoms, I start to twitch a little. For some reason, those little miseries fill me with more jealousy than any adorable, hand-sewn baby blanket ever could.
It’s not your fault. I realize that it really sucks to get sick whenever you smell gasoline, causing lots of roadside puke stops. I know that I’m being unfair and self-centered. But really, I”m begging you to stop complaining to me for both of our sakes. It’ll save my sanity a little. And, it will keep me from bursting out into uncontrollable sobbing in your presence, which I assume would make you uncomfortable.
I don’t wantÂ to make you feel guilty. If youÂ happen to let it slide that you can’t even look at a pizza delivery guy without your esophagus bursting into flames, I’m not going to get sanctimonious and tell you that you should be happy and thankful. I promise not to stare longingly at the bit of elastic bandÂ holding up your pantsÂ that your shirt doesn’t quite cover. I’m trying here. Really, I am.
But I would give almost anything to feel the way you preggos do right now, nausea and all. So I can celebrate and be happy with you. I can plan and coo and “Awwwwwww.” I can’t feel sorry for you. I just don’t have it in me. So please understand, no more whining in front of the infertile one.