Let me preface this by saying that I am not one of those people who is unfailingly stiff-upper-lip-y and stoic in the face of challenges, physical or otherwise. If I twist my ankle, I am more than happy to sit down and let you bring me some ice while I watch back-to-back episodes of My So-Called Life. If I’m trying to carry a heavy tote bag that’s making me miserable and I am in the presence of a large and/or strong person who is willing to do the job for me, that is wonderful. If I am pregnant and you want to bring me tea while I do an impression of an amoeba: great.
That said, it is very strange feeling to all of a sudden – like, overnight – have my body decide that it is no longer interested in doing certain things that I would reasonably expect it to be able to do. I’m not talking about dead-lifting two-hundred-pound cabinets and running marathons; I’m talking about walking what I consider “normal” distances while carrying what I consider “normal” amounts of things.
I’ve talked before about how different this pregnancy is from my first, mostly because I honestly keep forgetting that I am. Pregnant. There are a few minutes every evening when I’m quiet and still and lay in bed and feel my daughter kick and think about who she will be, but during the daylight hours there’s way too much going on to spend a ton of time reveling in any Miracles Of Life. This is pretty normal, I think.
This weekend, though, my body decided to remind me of what’s going on. Loudly.
I had a shoot in the West Village on Saturday, and took a cab downtown to meet the photographer (above) because I was running late, but then decided to take the subway home even though I was carrying a big bag full of clothing because the station was only a few blocks away, and taxis are unconscionably expensive, and…I mean, obviously I took the subway. I always walk around New York City carrying bags and taking subways. It would literally never occur to me to not do this.
But during the walk from the train station back to my parents’ place to pick up my son I ended up sort of panicking, and stopping into a store and asking the proprietor if I could sit down for a minute, because I felt light-headed and was starting to feel a pain in my side that I remembered from the first time around but that was nevertheless freaking me out. (It’s called round ligament pain; it just means you need to take it easy for a minute, but is a little worrying until you realize what’s going on.) I felt embarrassed about asking the store owner if I could sprawl out in her lovely establishment, and it wasn’t until she started asking me questions about my due date that I remembered: oh, right. These things happen. They’re normal, and they don’t mean you’re weak/a disaster/ridiculous…they just mean that you need to chill out and pay attention to what your body wants. And if what it wants is to sit down:
You sit. Down.
I remember this needing-to-listen-to-your-body more thing happening when I was pregnant with Indy, of course, but I remember it happening later, when it felt like it made more sense. I mean, I’m only four and a half months pregnant. That is not a lot of pregnant; we’ve got a ton more headed this way. But apparently your body “remembers” what’s about to happen and lays it out for you earlier the second time around (as an example, that’s why some women start showing a little earlier in their second pregnancy).
The thing is, to me it’s not an especially comfortable feeling to be out in the world by myself and need to rely on strangers to give me a seat, or get me some water. It makes me feel slow, and helpless, and sort of pathetic, incapable of handling things that I really do need my body to be capable of handling, like picking up my son and unloading Costco boxes (sometimes at the same time). I had this weird fantasy-nightmare last night when I was falling asleep that the house was on fire and I had to lift both dogs and my son out of a window, and that I wasn’t able to do it because my body decided to say no.
If this sounds like I’m being all woe-is-me, I really don’t mean for it to: obviously this is all happening because of an exciting, extraordinary, lucky event. Besides: I’m hardly in crippling pain, and as pregnancy troubles go “slowing down a little” is standard practice. I know that to some extent it’s necessary, and I know that there are things that I can do to help with discomfort (stretching, going to the gym, et cetera), and I’m doing those things. It’s just a shock to remember that being pregnant is a big deal, and puts your body through a lot – I had forgotten, I think.
And I guess something about this loss of control is making it extra-difficult to get my emotions under control. When I say that I am crying every thirty seconds, it is not very much of an exaggeration – I’ve actually switched over to waterproof eyeliner because I have no way to predict when I am going to cry or why beyond the knowledge that it will probably happen very, very soon and for completely unforeseeable reasons. Forget about having mini-episodes while walking home from subway stations; everything from Virgil peeing on my floor to the laundry that I dropped while I was walking up the stairs to my son giving me a hug -> tears. And seriously: can that Christina Aguilera duet “Say Something” PLEASE stop playing on the radio every five minutes? That would be great.
Wobble wobble, boo hoo.
