Written under the influence (of hormones)
Here goes old news: I'm pregnant with my 4th baby. I've been so sick - as sick only as I was with Veronika, which is not pleasant. I kind of thought I was done with the extreme sickness as with the boys' pregnancies I could still sort of function, but this time, I've been bedridden again, now for almost 2 weeks and sick for almost 6. But anyway, pregnancy does not sit well with me. I think it's safe to say I hate it. And every time the same thing happens. I see my kids and how much fun we're having, especially now that all of them speak and their personalities are blooming and I think: More kids! Great idea! Then I get pregnant and everything changes, everything. I think: More kids! Horrible idea! What was I thinking? How did I not remember how much I hate this? I will lose my body and my freedom and my sleep and basically... control. I don't want this. I want opportunities! Freedom! My skinny clothes! Grown-up parties! And most of all: control! I want it how I want it. I don't want a baby seriously cutting into all that is mine. Obviously it doesn't help that in between those thoughts I'm bending over a toilet bowl. The baby, it took control! It took it all, right away. Poor me.
Yeah, so I'm a very grateful pregnant woman. I count my blessings and whatnot. Seriously though a part of me always knows that this is where my life is supposed to go. I had three kids and I couldn't bear the thought of being done. I love my children and I love my husband and here we are having more, it just doesn't get much more logical than this. The problem is I know I don't see life as it happens. I suppose most people don't. Being in the middle of the story makes it impossible to make oneself an objective picture of it, and although looking back often involves selective memory it is in some ways more accurate in describing what really happened.
Having my first three kids relatively close together was exhausting. I thought it would never end. I was overwhelmed and wanted it all to pass quickly. I don't wish those days back, but I do feel wistful sometimes. I see now that it was just a part of it all while at the time it was all I knew about life with children. The agony of making it through the day was right there beside the joy of the beginning of their (and our) lives. They are inseparable. Sure it could've gone another way, but it would still not have been easy. I struggle with the responsibility of it (see above), but I'm grateful to myself for having done it. I wanted another child because after a few years now I can see where all these diapers and tantrums are taking us to and I like it. I wanted more of it. Except when I didn't. It will always be this way, the commitment and the reluctance at war.
I'm not a happy pregnant woman and I'm not sure I'm a good mother, but my kids are good and it's about them. That is the perspective that connects me to the end of the story and keeps me bending over that toilet bowl a fourth time now.