(Diary) Week 17: Are you Ready for It?

& other questions people ask you when you're pregnant

Welcome to my diary. These are entires I wrote during my own pregnancy. What you’re about to read is unfiltered, unedited, and perhaps a bit uncanny. But these are my raw feelings written in real-time. Everyone’s perspective and journey is different. This is mine.

Week 17: Are you Ready for It?

When you tell people you’re pregnant, they ask you a lot of questions.

You have answers for none of them.

Are you ready for this?

Was it planned?

How long did it take you to get pregnant?

Do you know the gender?

Are you excited?

Do you feel a connection to the baby?

How are you going to live in a one bedroom apartment with a baby?

How will you work? Will you still work?

Are you scared you’re going to gain a lot of weight?

What cravings do you have?

Are you planning on breast feeding?

You’re going to have a baby shower, right? Did you make a registry yet?

Did you pick a name yet? Will you tell us the name already?

Are you worried about having a miscarriage?

Are you ready to get super fat?

You know you’re eating for two now, right?

Are you sure you should be drinking coffee?

Can you show me your bump? Can I touch it.

Do you want a girl or a boy?

When is your due date?

Are you worried about giving birth?

Do you think you’re being a bit too hormonal?

Are you so happy? So happy? You must be soooo happy!

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“Do you feel a connection to the baby?”

You decide early on, that when people ask you questions you don’t know the answer to, you won’t lie.

What’s the point?

You’ve lied about too much in your life already.

When you got engaged, and everyone asked if you wanted a big wedding, you nodded a long, you booked a venue, you secured a band.

You added them to the guest list for a party you never really wanted.

But not this time.

Lies don’t protect you, they protect the other person more.

And you don’t have the patience or the desire to protect anyone else right now.

You’re growing a baby. You’re trying to protect her.

I’ll be honest with you. I don’t feel a connection yet.

You tell this to a friend over chai lattes. She tells you what to do.

Every day, talk to the baby. Sign to it. Write it love letters. Buy it clothes. Explain what life will be like for her once she’s here.

You try really hard to do all of that.

In the shower, you rub your stomach and say: it’s a great big world but here in Brooklyn, things are quite small. There’s one closet for all of us in this place. I’ll give you all the space you need, don’t worry.

At night, you sing her Taylor Swift songs. Shake it off, shake it off, off.

You write her a love letter and stuff in your desk drawer.

You try to buy her clothes but it feels too forced. How do I know if she’ll want to wear stars?

You wake up in the middle of the night to pee for the 12th time and on the toilet you talk: I’m really scared to be your mom, but I promise to do everything I can to make you feel loved.

The next week, that friend follows up.

Do you feel a connection yet?

You want to say yes, you want to say that all her tricks work, you want her to think that as the days pass, you’re becoming great at being someone’s mom.

But the truth is, sometimes it feels like you’re talking to a bowling ball that occasionally rolls around inside of you.

And the truth is, you don’t really even know what to say.

And it’s also true that you have a million things to say, but you don’t know where to start.

Not yet. One day. I hope soon.

The friend tells you that you’re trying too hard. That you’re taking all of this too seriously. That you’re doing that thing you do where you just overcomplicate the simple things.

You go home and shut off Taylor Swift, you rip up the love letter, you quit promising you’re going to make space.

Who are you kidding? You live in a tiny box and you don’t have the money to make it any bigger.

On the day you found out you were pregnant, you stood in the shower for as long as you could, until the burning hot water became ice cold.

We’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this.

Back then, you didn’t think anyone was listening.

Nobody ever said they were.

So whenever you felt scared, you kept saying that.

Sometimes out loud. Sometimes, just in your head.

On the day, you decided to stop looking for a connection, you say it again.

We’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this.

All of a sudden, for the first-time, you feel something.

It’s not a racing heart or a burst of joy.

It’s a tiny push inside your stomach. A kick. A high-five. A sign.

That this little tiny thing growing inside of you agrees.

We’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this.