Pregnant Women Who Complain

So you know how one of the worst things that a pregnant woman can do around an infertile is complain about how hard pregnancy is and jokingly ask if said infertile reeeeeally wants to go through it?

Now that I am on the other side, I have some things to say about that.

First of all, pregnancy is totally hard.  Things I have gone through so far include:

1.  Running out of class to throw up.
2.  Walking home even though it takes an hour because I can't bike anymore without vomiting and my husband can't always give me a ride.
3.  Period-like cramps for TWO WEEKS STRAIGHT peppered with sharp pangs that I have never experienced as my uterus swells to an unheard of size (no blood, though, so no cause to worry).
4.  Waking up in the middle of the night to throw up.
5.  Throwing up for half an hour straight, so hard that chunks were coming out my nose, then getting a nose bleed as well so that blood and vomit are just spewing out of my face orifices in an endless stream of disgusting bodily fluids.
6.  Awkwardly avoiding questions from friends and family about my ttc journey because I'm not comfortable telling EVERYONE yet.
7.  Peeing like basically every seven minutes.
8.  Bloating and feeling fat and unattractive.
9.  Constant exhaustion.
10.  Difficulty sleeping because of all the stress dreams and the inconvenience of trying to train myself to sleep on my side when I've always been a sleep-on-the-stomach kind of person.
11.  Insane cravings.
12.  Super fun pimples all over my face.
13.  Inability to eat sushi or rare meat or soft cheeses or alcohol or excessive seafood (all my favorite things).
14.  Wild mood swings that have me sobbing one second and laughing the next.
15.  Fear and anxiety about miscarriage or complications.
16.  Throwing up.  Yes, this deserves FIVE spots on the list because, seriously, it is the worst.

These things are not fun.  They are, in fact, rather inconvenient.  But let me tell you something, ladies.  And I want you to know that I mean this from the bottom of my heart.

Even without all those symptoms, struggling with infertility is still harder.  SO MUCH HARDER.  IT IS NOT EVEN CLOSE.

Because all those things (except the mood swings and the anxiety, but they come with fertility drugs, too) are purely physical, and I can handle physical difficulties all day.  All day.  For nine months.  No freaking sweat.

Having the emotional burden of barrenness and fear that I will never get pregnant lifted off of my shoulders is HUGE.  I'm doing better in school.  I had five interviews last weekend for summer employment and I nailed them, even through the nausea.  In fact, I already have two offers.  I'm remembering all the good things about my life and enjoying being where I am instead of wishing, so hard, that I could fast forward.  Life is honestly, genuinely, dramatically easier now.

So I just want you all to know that when you grumble behind your compassionate nods as some fertile myrtle tells you that you're just so lucky to not have to go through what she's going through... you are so unbelievably right when you think about how wrong she is.  What you're going through is harder.  So much harder.  She will never understand.  But I will understand if you decide to slap her, because she is the worst.

I'll race ya!

So as I mentioned last post, I was visiting Brother and California Sister-In-Law (I'm gonna call her "CSIL" because typing is hard) this weekend.

(For those who are wondering: no, I have not quite recovered from the Dairy Debacle of 2014.  Getting there.  But this post is not about that.)

CSIL just started trying to conceive and after subtly testing the waters ("CSIL, would you like a drink?  Yes, you would?  Aaaaaalllllright then.") and then feeling like a jerk for being relieved that she is not yet doing the prongo congo, I struck up a conversation about baby names.

Because baby names are fun!  And we have talked about them before!  And Husband and I, in our obsession (ok, fine, my obsession), came up with a second name we love for each gender in case of twins (when it rains, it pours, right?).  So I thought it would be a fun, "Hey, look, we can totally talk about some baby things together without me being a super-downer all the time!"

Nope.

Even though she has told me her baby names in the past, apparently since she started trying For Serious she no longer wants to discuss it.  She doesn't want to hear mine and she won't tell me hers.

Why not?

Because if they're the same, "it'll be awkward" (her words) because they're not changing their minds and they don't want us to be mad at them when the baby pops out and they give him or her a name that we  wanted.  So, basically, when it comes to names she thinks I might want, she's prepared to race me for them.

Well, FREAKING GREAT.  I would love to race you, CSIL.  Your period comes like freaking clockwork and your uterus had never flipped you off with any kind of weird symptoms.  Let's totally race.  Oh, what's that, you got pregnant in the middle of that sentence and it's quadruplets and you're going to use all of my names?  I'm thrilled.

Seriously, though.  She could have just told me her names.  I am not a danger to her.  In fact, if we were thinking of the same name, I would have withdrawn immediately.  I wasn't even going to TRY to fight her, because I know what a gimp I am.

This is what a race between us would look like:  The gun goes off.  I shoot out of the gate, immediately trip on my own feet, and fall flat on my face.  Embarrassed, I get up, run really fast, smack into something, realize that it's the starting gate and that I'm running in the exact opposite direction that I'm supposed to be, and then collapse on the ground and sob for a while.  CSIL takes a casual drink of water.  I finally push my emotions down, start staggering down the track again, and then suddenly go blind.  As I get down on all fours and try to feel my way towards the finish line (spoiler alert: I am not even close), CSIL finally enters the race.  She jogs easily past me, crosses the finish line, and then wipes her brow even though her forehead is not even so much as GLISTENING from exertion.  She gets a trophy.  I am crying again.  All of her children get beautiful names and I am stuck with the names Toiletface and Trashchild.  They are not even real children; just some sticks I found and decided to love.  Some people wonder whether I think they are real children on account of the fact that I am STILL BLIND, but no one feels comfortable asking.  Gradually I lose all of my friends and acquaintances, flunk out of law school, and get really smelly.

That's how I feel right now.

But since she won't tell me her names, I'm going to stick with mine.  And if she gets pregnant and gives birth and bestows upon the fruit of her loins one of MY names, then I will consider that my child.  Win-win.  Free child.  That's what I call problem solved.