Pregnancy & Arynisms

There are two kinds of pregnant women. There are the women who get "the glow", who walk through the mall with an excited smile, knowing the child they are growing will one day become Prime Minister. They are the women who take pregnancy photos, of tiny bumps in super tight tank tops and their fingers making hearts over their belly buttons. They are the women who don't look pregnant from behind, and exercise throughout their entire pregnancy. They are the women who have mild morning sickness, and no Braxton Hicks.

Then there are the women, who, about 30 seconds after they see the "plus" sign on the pregnancy test become best friends with their toilet for 3/4 of the pregnancy, who look 8 months pregnant at 12 weeks, who expand in areas they didn't know existed, get stretch marks that look like they were attacked by 300 cats, and curse God for making pregnancy 40 weeks of misery.

I am the latter.

When you know women who just can't get pregnant, no matter how hard they try, it's tough to say out loud that "pregnancy sucks." But... for some women, it does. My friend and I have been texting each other all of our pregnancy despairs. Both of us wanted so many children; neither of us have good pregnancies and therefore will most likely not ever do this again. Ever.

Ever.

And we walk around the mall, looking at those silly smirking, happy-to-be-pregnant women and secretly curse them with colic and diaper rashes. Because it's only fitting that after 40 weeks of misery, we should get the healthy babies and they should get the children who make them wish they hadn't gotten drunk a year earlier.

But, then, two years later, you seem to forget that horrible 40 weeks and start to think, "I could do this again." Even when you read your previous blog posts about how awfully, disgustingly sick you were, you still think, "I don't remember it being that bad."

So you try it again. And at precisely 6 weeks pregnant, all of those memories from 2 years earlier rush back and, while sitting on the bathroom floor heaving yesterday's supper, you scream at your husband, "I HATE YOU! I AM NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN! EVER!"

And to think I'm sitting here also thinking, "If this one is a girl.... should we have 3 kids and hope for a boy?"

Women be crazy.

But that's not what this blog post is about! It was meant to be about my child, who has become a crazy monster who has devoured my sweet, hugging perfection that was once my beautiful daughter.

You know those kids you see in the stores where you look pityingly at the mother and think, "My kid will never be like that. My child will never speak to me that way."

And then she learns to talk. And she does speak to you that way.

Last night, I asked Aryn if she wanted to have a bath. She excitedly ran to the stairs, while I lay on the floor, contemplating the lesser of the two evil jobs before me: bathe her, or take Bauer for a walk. I lost the bet and had to give her a bath. And she knew it.

"Come here, mommy. NOW. Mommy! Come NOW. Mommy, get up NOW!"

I looked terrifyingly at my toddler. Do I punish her? Do I laugh? Do I just concede?

I conceded. I listened to her demands and I followed her with my tail between my legs. I gots in trouble, and I didn't like it. I had better listen to everything she tells me in the future and always let her tell me what to do.

Today, everything is "mine." The diapers are "mine." The wipes are "mine." My Lululemon still pants are "mine." Yet none of it is really mine; "mine" means "hers." She is demanding it. She is becoming owner of everything in the house. Her poor little friend Keegan's monster trucks were hers. She would not let him play with anything. The paints were hers. Bauer is hers. Everything is hers.

I am scared of her.

But then, the little baby that was at our house for a total of 10 minutes this morning began crying, and Aryn rushed over to her like a quick little bunny, grabbed a blanket, patted her head, and whispered "shhhhhh" to her, and brought her a baby doll to check out. Aryn went from being the Hulk to a mother in 1.3 seconds flat. And it was beautiful, and sweet, and makes me think that we can do this Baby #2 thing. I'll have the best helper ever. Then, Aryn took the baby doll she brought over and chucked it straight across the room and looked at the poor, sweet baby with a look that said, "Ever cross me, and that's what'll happen to you."

My uterus hugged the poor little foetus growing inside and patted its head, with a very non-reassuring, "It sure sucks to be you."

It sure will, little one. I'm scared for you, and I'm scared for us.

Send help.