By Bertha
I can tell you that I never saw the proverbial "glow" reflected from my face in the course of my first pregnancy. After spending much money and time plastering creams on my face to encourage it to shine, I decided the proverb was like the "pot of gold at the end of the rainbow," a motivation to keep you going "against all hope."
I began with recurrent vomiting that prompted me to get medical attention, and thereby learn I was pregnant. Even when everyone said it was natural, I swore my guts were being ripped from the inside.
Then there was being bloated and trying to recall when had been my last good bowel movement. I eventually thought to record these events on a calendar I kept secret.Later in the pregnancy I became swollen with retained water, and my fingers appeared more befitting of "Miss Piggy." In time, I had no recourse but to cut my wedding ring off. My legs were not spared and eventually looked like sacks of flour hung to ferment naturally.
Pain at the hips my doctor tried to explain as the wisdom of nature, expanding my pelvis to accommodate the growing head of my child. With no patience for sanctimony, all I could relate to was my grandma's arthritic posture.
I almost broke down in tears when the doctor described how my eight pound son would slip down such a small orifice. God, it had hurt even when my husband had claimed my virginity.
After nine months of my bodily contortions and distortions, I waddled gleefully to the birthing station, like a mad woman being taken to the gallows.
I would have thought 24 hours of pushing into a funnel as ridicule, but I could think of nothing else than the ecstasy at delivering my healthy son. When I first held him, his eyes stared back at mine as if searching for assurance. I moved his mouth to my engorged nipple and, with his lips pressed to my flesh, he closed his eyes and vigorously suckled. The moist pull of his lips assured me I would be a good mother.
When he is two, I plan on giving my son a sister.
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