The Dreaded Pox

I guess this is the part of the pregnancy where all I do is complain. I remember a week ago I said that having my back out was worse than being sick – after all, when you are sick at least you can MOVE. I must have cursed myself, because now I am truly sick, and very miserable. I can walk, but I still can’t leave the house. What’s worse – Notre Dame got pounded today by Pitt, of all teams.

I continuously reassure myself that all of this discomfort and suffering will be worth it. I research every pill I put into my body. I’ve called my ob/gyn’s office so much this week that they are starting to expect to hear from me. My abdomen feels bigger and harder, and I find myself telepathically communicating with The Baby, tell it that everything will be okay. Or am I telling myself?

I think of The Baby as this wise, all-knowing creature that is just beyond my reach. Isn’t that how people speak of the unborn children in the pregnant mama’s belly? They are like gods, the way we worship them, coddle them, do everything FOR them. But then they come out into the world and we see them for what they are: helpless, and depending on us – the witless new mothers and fathers – for their very lives.

It’s an awesome responsibility, and I know I am not the first person to consider this, but I’ve been feeling lately like The Baby is watching everything I do. Like it can see through the uterus and skin and it says things like “shouldn’t you eat a salad that is rich in nutrients instead of that cheeseburger?” Sometimes I agree. Today my answer is “Baby, I’ve been sneezing and coughing for 16 hours straight with no relief. I’m thinking I should buy stock in Kleenex because I literally fill garbage cans with snotty tissues. I can’t leave my house, and I’m desperate to feel better because I start a new job in 2 days. I NEED a cheeseburger!”