In the first part of my pregnancy, as I was excitedly watching my body's appearance change, I had a little sadness in the back of my mind for the old body I'd never see again. It made me feel silly to be diluting my joy with vanity, but it was like saying goodbye to a friend, knowing I'd see them again eventually, but that things would always be different.
Well, nature has an answer for those mixed feelings. It's called the ninth month. Now the way my body will look after pregnancy seems inconsequential compared to how my body will feel. I'm no longer fazed by the prospect of the new squishier me. I'm instead completely captivated by the idea that one day, I'll again be able to run up a flight of stairs, walk a brisk mile or two on a whim, and even roll over in bed without first planning a strategy.
These feats all seem especially miraculous because there's a little, primitive part of my brain that believes that I will be pregnant forever; that maternity clothes will be my permanent wardrobe, that my feet will forever be strangers to me, that I'll always be this awkward and feeble.
Fitting into my skinny jeans by Christmas? Whatever. The ability to lift and tote and bend and jog? Yes, please! Oh, please. And soon. Please.
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1 comment:
loved this one- I'm printing out my favorites and creating a book! see you very soon!!!
love, carroll
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