Third Trimester Creature Feature
There's a monster living in the house and it might be me
“This idealized, beautified, and highly choreographed portrayal of pregnancy in more recent years has its own set of problems, of course. As anyone who’s experienced pregnancy knows, that’s not the full picture.” -Charlotte Jansen, Why See Pregnant Women in Art History
The exhaustion.
It has seeped into the walls of the house.
The pregnant mother braces herself for a tough weekend. The father will leave for a bachelor party. He has been working his butt off for seven months, managing the house, caring for our toddler, attempting to interpret what his couch-ridden co-parent needs to feel comfortable, cared for, fed, and happy. He’s counting down the days until the baby is born just as much as the pregnant mother, but with a bit more apprehension.
It hangs over like a cloud: Lives will never be the same.
He left for the overnight trip, leaving the pregnant mother and toddler at home. He left excited, eager to treat himself to a nice dinner, to stay up late and sleep in the next morning. He encourages the pregnant mother to treat herself too. He’ll miss her. She knows that. He’ll miss their daughter. He’ll be thrilled to be home the following afternoon. And he truly wants the pregnant mother to give herself a treat, to let go and relax. She has worked so hard. She deserves it.
And, yet, the pregnant mother, a transformation of the woman he married, with a now spiky exterior and at least forty extra pounds (but who is keeping track), can only lament that there is no treating yourself in the third trimester,
No wild late night.
No sleeping in.
No extra glass of wine to celebrate a quiet Saturday night in.
No sweets without the guilt that she will in fact develop gestational diabetes, even though she passed the test two months ago.
No body that feels like her own.
No quiet.
No relief.
Maybe an evening watching TV or reading a book. Alone time would be nice.
The father admits that the pregnant mother is right. There isn’t much to do to treat yourself in the third trimester of pregnancy. He hopes that she will at least get some rest.
And the pregnant mother feels like a jerk for poo pooing his thoughtful suggestion.
But she is excited. She can’t wait. So happy to be having the final addition to their family, a healthy baby, a bundle of joy to hold and cuddle and care for.
It’s telling. The pregnant mother starts this tale with the father. How he is feeling. The burden that has been placed on him. The love and compassion the pregnant mother has for the man that she chose to be her husband. It would be selfish to worry only about the burden and discomfort on herself. That’s not what a good wife would do. That’s not how a loving and caring partner should behave. He is tired. He is overworked. Their toddler misses their mother. He has had to deal with all of it.
What a load of bullcrap.
Nine weeks left.
The final countdown. Only nine weeks. Family and friends cannot believe it is so soon. They can’t believe how quickly the time has gone, that the newest bundle will be here so so soon. I mean, look how big you are. You must be ready to pop. Are you sure you aren’t having twins?
9 weeks. Soon? That’s over two months. 9 fucking weeks. In what world is that quick? The pregnant mother’s world will change three times over in that amount of time. 9 fucking weeks of getting bigger. Of finding new clothes because the maternity ones are too small. Of working and mothering and smiling at people who think it is almost over.
Screw you.
The pregnant mother smiles politely anyway.
These are the people that care for the pregnant mother. They would find a way to help, if only the pregnant mother would ask.
But an amorphous mound follows the pregnant mother everywhere.
Fatigue. Discomfort. Guilt. Pain.
It anchors itself to her spine.
Wraps around the muscles in her legs.
Pulls tight on her ribs when she wakes at 3 am convinced something is wrong.
The alarm clock rings, thirty minutes later than the typical time. Sleep is important for the baby and the pregnant mother. The father requested she sleep in more. He promises he will give her all the quiet morning time in the evenings, watching their toddler, cleaning the house, so the pregnant mother can do her typical morning routine later. Some yoga, quiet reading time, time to write.
The pregnant mother has never taken the father up on this offer entirely. She couldn’t live with choosing herself over time with her family, even if that time is consistently the pregnant mother grunting and shifting as she tries to find a comfortable position on the couch while their toddler wiggles her way behind the mother’s back so she can cuddle with Mama or play hide and seek, or maybe just shove her mother off the couch because then the slow and toddling version of her mother will finally be off the couch and willing to play with her.
She did take him up on the offer to clean, though. Her stomach has made it hard for her to reach the faucet and soap in the kitchen sink at this point. Bending over to unload the dishwasher is a feat her back can’t handle anymore. Lugging laundry between the machines leaves her out of breath. Every little bit helps. And no, the toddler’s toys do not need to be cleaned up tonight. The father should sit down, he’s been cleaning all evening.
The pregnant mother is still working. Another month to go before maternity leave. She teaches. Her students thought she was going out of leave much sooner. Could be the way she shuffles and waddles around campus, the shortness in her patience, or the bags under her eyes. Alas, it’s still a month. And the mound of fatigue and frustration grows. It weighs her down. It’s slowing her body and her brain.
The work piles up with leave somewhat near. Four weeks feels like a jail sentence of early morning daycare drop offs, hustles to prep and teach the students before state testing begins, emails to answer, meetings to attend, grading to get done. Children and colleagues counting on her. She can’t leave without finishing her students’ report cards. She hoped to get them done a month earlier, yet here with four weeks left, they are barely touched. The amorphous mound prods at that anxiety. It coaxes the guilt as she puts on a documentary for the day instead of introducing the Renaissance Reformation herself.
People ask her how she is feeling, a lilt in their voice, a knowing, yet unknowing gesture. More comments about being about to pop. More caring check-ins by fellow teachers and parents. What is the pregnant mom supposed to say? She’s miserable. She’d rather be home. Your child’s education is no longer feeling like a priority to her and she is just surviving.
Instead, she tells them the same lines over and over again.
I’m hanging in there.
I’m just waddling along.
She gets a sympathetic chuckle or two and they move on. The quick conversation done for them, while the pregnant mother will field at least five more exact same interactions.
The mound of discomfort and guilt stretches the muscles in her stomach, making room for the growing baby. The baby kicks. The pregnant mother has to pee again and debates the best route to take where she doesn’t have to interact with anyone on the way there. She gets the secretary on the phone to get supervision for her class. She’ll have some time to think of her route as she waits for that relief.
The work day is over and the pregnant mother is back on that couch. She really can’t fit comfortably there anymore. The father urges her to lay in bed to rest instead. He spends the evening with their toddler. She cries a little before settling into bed. The mound strokes the guilt that their toddler should be spending the evening at the park on this nice spring day. It slips in to lament that the pregnant mother did not exercise today, growing additional dread that the doctor will mention the pregnant mother’s weight gain at her next appointment. Under the blanket of shame and guilt, the pregnant mother falls asleep.
She woken by her bladder, a jab by that mound of anxiety and pain. She worries that something is wrong with the baby. She checks her stomach, a quick squeeze like the nurses taught her, to confirm there is no contraction. She’s eager to be done, but it’s still too early. Worry from past experience keeps her from fully wishing that the pain is labor, that the baby has finally arrived. There is still nine weeks to go.
Another hour of sleep goes by and she’s woken again, this time by her toddler. She had a bad dream. No, she doesn’t want to sleep in her bed. She’s scared. No, she doesn’t want to sleep on the couch in her parents’ bedroom. She wants her mama. Wants to be close to her. The pregnant mother holds her toddler close. The mound fosters the guilt and shame that the mother hasn’t been spending enough time with her first born child. It spreads through her whole body. Her mind spins intricate webs, latching her to her toddler. She’ll never let go. She won’t let her down.
An hour passes. The pregnant mother knows she needs to get some sleep. She has to be up early to go to work the next morning, but sleep is not going to happen while she battles a toddler’s stray knee from jabbing into her swollen stomach. She slips out from under the sleeping toddler, whispers to the father to get her if he needs help with her, and drags herself and a blanket to the couch.
The couch is warm. The fabric makes her sweat, but it has molded itself to her shape.
She falls asleep eventually.
I fall asleep.
I get some rest, some reprieve. If only for a few short hours.
Filed Alongside this Entry
Artist Ghislaine Howard writes of her pregnancy self-portrait.
FANTASTIC photographer, Jena Love, shares her pregnancy series in this article
A book I have added to my TBR: Portraying Pregnancy: from Holbien to Social Media by Karen Hearn
“Although maternal symbolism is deep-rooted in the human psyche, female subjectivities and the realities of pregnancy have remained shrouded in mystery.” - Lydia Figes
