Plight of the Pregnant

You know what I'm talking about.  I'm thinking about those beautiful pregnant woman you see in the windows of little yoga studios, barely sweating.  Barely showing.  The ones who have stock piled onesies in every color as soon as two little pink lines showed up on the strip.  The ones who eat fruit and yogurt for breakfast, take a nap and then meander over to the tea shop for a cup of decaffeinated green-jasmine, looking all pink and glowing and stunningly gorgeous and happy.

I hate them.

I hate them as I'm sitting at my desk in my empty classroom trying to cover my green pallor with blush.  I hate them as the cafeteria wafts distinctive smells that signify that it is somehow, yet again, chili-cheese dog day and praying that I will make it to the toilet at the end of the third wing in time to vomit for the umpteenth time in the last few days.  I hate them as my waistline expands into a strange, foreign blob that looks less like its harboring a child than a food baby.  I hate them because no one told me it could be miserable enough to count down the days until delivery...at just 16 weeks.

Well, I'm telling you now.  I hate being pregnant.  I love the idea of raising a family with my husband- the beautiful way God enabled me to provide for my child what I didn't have: a two parent household that is unified.  I love that our kid will be read to and sung to and cooked for and played with. I love that s/he'll have a home to come to, that God's promises are written all over our family.  But I hate this process.  I hate the hormones, I hate the crying, I hate the illness, I hate the weight gain, I hate the fatigue, I hate the pressure.  I also hate that I have the inability to utilize my once coveted tact- and be honest about everything.

So, dear, glowing, beautiful, tea-drinking, yoga participating mama-to-be, please don't take it personally. I just hate you right now.