A little something I wrote while five months pregnant….
I never wanted to be pregnant in the summer. Summer pregnancies are for lack of a better word, inconvenient. When I used to hear of my students and friends being pregnant for those 3 months smack in the middle of the year, a part of me mourned for all of the margaritas, rollercoaster rides and bikini selfies they’d miss without the reminder that at least for a portion of their life they couldn’t see their vaginas.
First off, I’m not the biggest fan of summer to begin with. By the time the end of June hits and I’ve gotten in my annual funnel cake binge and a day spent riding Hershey Park’s Great Bear repeatedly, I’m pretty much annoyed for two months straight by mosquitoes, sweat and those 3 days out the week God blesses me with the option to breathe through my nose or mouth because of my allergies.
Summer pregnancies are less than ideal. First there’s the obvious: the extra ten pounds you’re carrying on you during the days people would shed their damn cartilage if they could because it’s so hot. But then there’s something a little less obvious that takes a hard hit: Your social life.
People talk about pregnancy like they talk about ugly babies or kids with cancer: You don’t want to say anything bad about it because it’s borderline blasphemy. It’s like the 11th commandment or something that “pregnancy” and “sucks” occur in the same sentence. And while most days I have to remind myself this is temporary, I understand how kind of miraculous this time is and makes me smile. In fact as I type this, fetus is kicking or moving an elbow or something and I can feel it. I still feel like Sigourney Weaver in Alien, but it’s nice.
But on to the bad: I planned a summer full of margaritas, burritos and a lazy hour or two at the beach before I’m reminded it bores the hell out of me, wine on the front porch at sunset, Friday night Ciroc shots blasting everything from Nicki Minaj to Nickelback and my second annual OVOFest. Instead I’ll be spending my Independence Day sober and saying a slow goodbye to the ability to paint my own toenails. And in some sense I ruined my friends’ fun too. The happy hours came to a halt when I realized by the end of the year I’d be someone’s mom. As hard as I tried to reassure my friends I’d still be in attendance, I’d just be exercising my right to pass, I think we all knew that it would be different. So inevitably I am realizing two things: 1) There’s a somewhat disturbing part of my leisure that is dependent on alcohol. 2) It’s true: Once you have children it changes the relationship you have with friends who don’t.