As Alpine Papa will attest, I am not very good at being pregnant. Not at all.
You know those people who glow their way through pregnancy like a sunbeam, with nothing to slow them down except too much damn gushing about how they “luuuurve being pregnant” and “isn’t it amaaaaaazing”? That’s not me. Not at all.
Alpine Papa is no help. I don’t think he believes any of the suffering I am genuinely going through to bring this beautiful new life into the world. In fact, when I moan (admittedly for the 40th time that day) about how crap being preggars is, he immediately takes great delight in pointing out how desperately I wanted to be pregnant each time, and how I would whine any time anyone I knew would dare get pregnant before me. “Ooooh , it’s not fair”, he mocks (apparently that’s how I talk). “So-and-so is pregnant, how come I’m not pregnant? I want to be pregnant. It’s not faaaaaaaair. Why can’t I be pregnant? I want to be pregnant!”.
I would like to point out, though, that he is wrong. Very. I have never said “I want to be pregnant”, or moaned about not being. I have often whined about the fact that I want another baby and I want it now. But that’s entirely different. I have never had any desire to be pregnant. Why would I? It’s rubbish.
Hell in fact. Nine months of hell. Must have been what Dante had in mind. Here are my nine circles of hell: