9 (un)magical months
Many, many years ago.
When my firstborn Do was still dancing polkas in my belly, during a visit to the doctor, I met a “fellow fate companion.”
I didn’t know her.
But the sight I saw stuck in my memory for a long time.
The scorching August sun was beating down.
And in front of me, in the waiting line, sat a heavily pregnant woman…
She was wearing ridiculously oversized men’s slippers, through the front of which peeked what were probably remnants of toenails painted red back at the start of her pregnancy.
My fate companion was very stout and very dissatisfied with everything.
And she constantly grumbled at the nearby man, who seemed too timid to even take a deep breath, the owner of those oversized slippers.
Many years passed.
I saw many pregnant women.
Most of them I admired.
But still, the image I saw that day… hung in my memory with the alarm switched on:
That in all the twists and turns of life, in every period… I would love myself and try to be as composed, “non-grumbling,” and beautiful as possible.
First and foremost, for myself.
I’m realistic.
I almost always feel solid ground under my feet.
I don’t look for inspiration in the cosmos.
And if I often tilt my head toward the sky, it’s only to admire its color and vastness.
I see a lot of good and beauty around me.
I notice much.
But soon I finish flapping my wings of inspiration and land firmly back on the ground.
That’s how I am everywhere:
At work. In creativity. At home. In raising children.
Not an exception in any of life’s “happening” states.
One of them—recently experienced—was the waiting-for-a-miracle phase.
That’s the romantic name for it.
Without romantic flourishes: a month ago, I was pregnant.
Heavily.
I found out I was expecting the day after the Must Have II photoshoot.
At the time, posing like a peeled-off version of myself for a familiar photographer, I was told I looked suspiciously calm.
“And you didn’t offer champagne,” Erika smiled, “so what other reason could there be, if not pregnancy, since we always celebrate?” she added.
But while posing, I didn’t know yet.
I only wanted it very, very much.
And secretly hoped that maybe this month would be THE one.
I saw the winning two lines in the morning.
At the countryside estate.
We went as four to celebrate the 6th birthday of Pa and check out the estate for the SPRING/21 photoshoot.
A winter weekend morning.
Cold enough to wrinkle your nose.
A freshly lit fireplace crackling warmly.
And…
In my hands, the second line appeared clearly.
I still remember that feeling…
Children’s ears and eyes wandering around.
And my own elephant-sized desire to nestle into my husband’s arms and talk about future plans.
By the crackling fireplace.
All day…
Until the next morning!
My pregnancy went smoothly.
No nausea.
No collapsing in front of the toilet.
No hospital visits.
No trips to the pathology department.
Just regular visits to the doctor, who congratulated me each time I completed another stage of a smooth pregnancy.
The months went by.
The little resident in my belly grew strong and healthy.
His little fists and kicks became more intense.
Every night I started a commute between bed and toilet.
Sometimes I counted my “visits” to the little ones.
Almost always ending up around ten.
In the last month, I got acquainted with Mr. “Urge-to-Pee.”
I began “sleeping” in the intervals between trips to the toilet while sitting.
During pregnancy, I gained 12 kg.
Fluids increased in the body.
It seemed as if streams bubbling under the skin whispered like tiny rivers.
And though almost daily I critically surveyed myself and thanked whoever decides these things that I wasn’t swelling… the heaviness in my legs was strong.
Especially on those days when, willingly or not, I forgot I was pregnant, and thoughts arose that my body was already too heavy for my legs.
Then, plopping onto a pillow, I thought I might need a crane to get to the bed.
Or my husband.
But again, recalling that fate companion with men’s slippers and Christmas-red toenail remnants… I shook myself by the scruff.
I didn’t eat for two.
I snuck out of the kitchen late at night, using “the baby wants it” as an excuse,
I didn’t indulge in tempting pastries.
I didn’t let my hair down at friend gatherings with cakes.
But I definitely didn’t starve.
I ate healthily and fully every day, just bypassing tasty but unnecessary desires.
Under my heart, I cradled a fairly compact, unstrewn belly with no stretch marks.
And though until the very last day I dared to snap a selfie and loudly tell you that the combination wasn’t created for expecting miracles, but was perfectly suitable for it…
I didn’t feel like a tiny cherry on a cake.
I experienced three pregnancies.
And in none of them…
Did I feel some glowing radiance.
I wasn’t adorned with “brightened” skin.
Or exceptionally shiny hair growing like vines.
I wasn’t convinced by people’s comments: “Oh, you only have a belly.”
Because we had scales at home that didn’t compliment.
The growing centimeters and increasingly tighter clothes brought me back to reality just the same.
Not just around the belly.
Let’s be honest:
Pregnancy weight doesn’t only settle on the belly.
It sticks, willingly or not, and adds a “safe” layer to other parts of the body too.
Logical?
Maybe Mother Nature arranged it that way.
Would you want to slip with a miracle in your belly?
Falling onto a pile of bones or onto softer flesh—there’s a difference.
Some days I felt like a whale.
Better days—like a whale in water.
Harder days—like the same whale, stranded on shore.
Summing it all up, I can say that all my pregnancies were periods
When the same old efforts weren’t enough to make me feel beautiful.
But recalling that I wanted to love myself and be beautiful in any period and weather…
I didn’t give up.
I walked and ran a lot.
When I learned I was expecting, I stopped running.
But I walked more.
Through forests and meadows.
Clinging to knowledge at arm’s length,
Because fresh air is healthy for both of us.
And moving my legs—never hurt anyone.
Halfway through the pregnancy, Mister Ego joined our family.
The excuse for walks doubled.
The day before the BIG DAY, guided by Ego, I walked our traditional six-kilometer loop,
And at night, watching the clock, I counted regular contractions.
During labor, I realized that years of intense walking hadn’t been wasted.
I went to the beautician. The hairdresser. Manicurist. Masseuse.
Once again, I “fell in love” with the doctor who cared for all my pregnancies, who always repeated:
“You can do everything you did before pregnancy. And nothing that you didn’t do before.”
I didn’t get arrogant.
I didn’t act sick.
I didn’t sigh into my husband’s ear: “How will I show up in a swimsuit this summer if I feel like a whale inside?”
Every morning after a sleepless night…
I dove into the shower.
Washed my hair.
Did my makeup.
Dressed up.
Without getting upset that someone was pressing my sides harder than last week.
I went like a tank for all nine months.
Not letting myself fall into the self-justification: “Oh, I’m pregnant…”
I went into labor.
Happy.
Sitting on top of the knowledge that today the “stranded whale” period would end.
Dressed.
Not in a festive gown,
But in a cozy “labor uniform.”
With neatly polished nails.
Mascara on lashes, blush on cheeks.
And above all in my morning wardrobe, shone the feeling that I was leaving to meet the miracle of life as a happy, self-loving woman.
That day, I became a MOTHER for the third time.
V.
