It’s pretty amazing how one comment can set the tone for the whole day. Make Friday into Happy Friday.
Just recently, I have been feeling pretty damn huge in terms of my size. In my head, I know that’s because I’m 31 weeks pregnant and not because I’m shovelling millions of calories into my body (I’m actually on a weight loss mission, which you can check out here), but with the combined effects of back ache, the inability to get off the sofa without assistance and the general discomfort that carrying a baby to term means, I’ve felt pretty lousy in terms of how I look.
Wes has been amazing with me. Tells me how beautiful he thinks I am everyday. I know that’s how he feels, but cynical Amy brain whispers in my ear ‘he’s about to marry you, it’s his job to tell you these things’ and I do that awful thing that I know I shouldn’t do and I shoot down his compliments. He still tries and for that I am forever grateful, but I know I need to stop acting otherwise.
Roll on this morning and my midwife, together with a student midwife I’d never seen before arriving to tell me about all the options I have for when I give birth to the little bugger. She measured the bump – he’s bang on the 50th percentile pretty much, so as happy and healthy as can be. Then I stood up and I heard her just say three words to me.
‘You look amazing.’
Brain stopped for a minute. Breathing didn’t happen for a second. I had to make sure she was talking to me before I spluttered the words ‘thank you’ to her. I was caught completely off guard by what she said and it made me completely re-evaluate how I feel about being so pregnant. It also made me realise how awful I’d been to Wes for the last few weeks when he’s said the same things to me.
Fact is, it isn’t his job to tell me things he thinks I want to hear. He doesn’t have to open his mouth about how I’m looking at all if he doesn’t want. But he does and I should feel awesome about it rather than just shirking him off. So today marks 9 weeks of massively concerted effort to make sure I don’t dismiss him anymore.
He’s my best friend.
When the time comes, he will be the one telling me how awesome I’m doing at being a woman and giving birth to our son – so I shouldn’t find it hard to believe that he thinks I’m still a bit of alright. We’ve had to have discussions about what I want when that time comes and what I don’t. I’ve told him that I’ll listen to him when I’m in there but he doesn’t think I will… he’s wrong of course. I trust him more than anyone – if he doesn’t think something is a good idea for our baby, I’m all for going with it.
The midwife was saying how my mind might change when labour actually happens. Whether I’ll actually want my Mum in the room. I may well want that epidural instead of jumping in a hot tub. A c-section might actually happen. But as long as Wes is there with me and our baby is happy and healthy at the end of it, I’d power through it on absolutely nothing if I had to. I’m not frightened by this process like I should be. Part of me is actually quite excited.
For once, I feel pretty good about how I’m carrying the boy and the potential of getting into that wedding dress once he’s here. If this positivity can carry on until he’s here, and beyond, then labour will be a breeze.
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