The first time around, I was a princess. Untouchable. The It Girl. Friends and family made food for me, opened doors and cleaned. I didn’t have to lift a finger.
When I was pregnant with my twins in 1998, everyone from my husband to my family treated me like a fragile egg. However those days are like a hazy memory now ... a misty, surreal dream that never really happened, only appeared in movies like “Father of the Bride: Part 2.”
As I write this piece, I’m nearly six months pregnant (with a single baby this time). And honey, I ain’t a princess no more. Handmaiden would be a better title, the omnipresent servant to my very impatient 2½ year-old twins. I also serve as the butt of the jokes and source of amusement for those whom I love and cherish.
My morning sickness: A laugh riot. Shove a plate of liver and onions in her face and wildly guffaw while she gags. Hey, garlic makes ya barf? Why don’t I eat a clove and then breathe on you?
Exhaustion: Please, what have you done all day, watched another dozen Barney episodes and read a few nursery rhymes? “Where’s my sippy cup?” cries a little voice from beside my bed at 6:45 a.m.
Started to look pregnant earlier than other women who haven’t been all stretched out having TWINS: Hey, you’d better call Goodyear because the blimp has some competition.
During my first pregnancy, when there were no kids at home and no one bringing me diapers filled with steamy, odorific poop, I was pampered. I didn’t know how good I had it. This second pregnancy -- even though it’s a single, not a twin pregnancy – seems much more difficult with no break from 24-hour parental duties, and robbed of my husband’s exclusive attention. Instead, I get a stand-up routine.
Let’s start with my husband Scott, who claims that he’s unfairly maligned in many of my columns. Truth be told, he was a saint during the twin pregnancy. With this one? Ya know, when you mock a pregnant woman and write off her complaints as the crazed ravings of a hormonal psychotic person, you’re just askin’ for it babe. (I warned him this column was in the works.)
When I was pregnant with Abbey and Jonah, every little thing that turned my stomach was quickly whisked away. Scott even stopped eating garlic, which he adores. I’d get home from work and he’d have a nice meal waiting for me. If he arrived home after me, he’d offer to make whatever I wanted and insisted that I rest. I never had to slave away in front of a hot stove when I really felt like hurling.