*Grateful

If pregnancy were a book, they would cut the last two chapters ~Nora Ephron

Pregnancy is not pretty. In fact, it is a pain in the ass. Literally. Having multiple bleeding balloons on one's butt hole does not translate into the miracle of life.  I don't slip on my wool slippers and heave my pulsating pelvic bone to draw a bath at three in the morning and marvel at the joy of being with child. Hanging my head in my hands and weeping because the pressure on my diaphragm is so intense, it has pushed the last tablespoon of peanut butter I ate back into the back of my throat is not a taste to be relished or celebrated. Quite simply, I am not myself.  And the worst part about it is, others around you think you are still that able body in control of emotions, bladder, and all life sustaining matters person. This selfish idea results in their needs being unmet and you finding another insensitive appendage in your life you had once mistaken as a relationship. Now, the cheerleaders will chant, "you will forget once you hold that baby."  This sentimental adage may be true and I look fondly toward the fast forwarded ten weeks of meeting that glorious creation.  But today, I'm living in the present with pillows wedged in every crease and a plea for sleep on my lips, screaming at the members of the labor club who didn't tell us newbies, this is hard.