Which One Is the Baby?

Why is a very pregnant woman writing a blog post at midnight?

For those of you who have ever been pregnant, or perhaps currently are, I hope that you will recognize/take solace in/have at least heard of the amazing, the inimitable...pregnancy mood swing. 

Ta da! Oh, the glory!

Details? You don't need details, trust me. You, like my dear exhausted husband, would want to bury your head in a pillow and/or search desperately for my "off" switch if I were to head down the road of details. And though I'm not keen on excusing bad behavior by trotting out the "hormones" as scapegoat, I do have to say that there is a fervor to the pregnancy melt-down that can only be chalked up to chemistry.

But, if a person were to Google, oh, say...third trimester and mood swings, said person would only find some very luke-warm write-ups on estrogen and progesteron and how asking for help with the dishes or eating a high-protein snack might just do the trick in turning that frown upside-down!  Ugh.

I have yet to come across an article that talks about how to wade through mind-numbing angst about life-purpose and career prospects and why it's hard to feel like you deserve all the relaxation and savoring that everyone is asking you to do while you're pregnant and goddess-like if you feel like you really don't have a whole lot going on in the work and money department and oh my god are you ever going to be able to make all of this work, post-baby, when you still feel like you have so FAR to go?!? (And P.S. Beyonce Knowles...are your billboards for your new HBO film, "Life is But a Dream", intended to make me feel even worse about all of this? Because really, I feel like you're doing it on purpose.)

But, no. I have never found that article. The one that reads:

"I'm Having a Baby and I Can't Stop Worrying about My Non-Existent Acting Career!", or;

"Pregnancy and Goal-Setting...a Recipe for Panic."

Or;

"How to Give Yourself a Goddamn Break and Just Enjoy Your Life Even Though You Sort of Feel Like Maybe You're Not the Focused Person You Thought You Were, But Rather a Bit of a Dilettante."

Or;

"Why Trying to Finish a New Draft of a Every Project in Your "Projects" Folder In the Next Seven Weeks Might Not Be a Great Use of Your Time, Preggo."

Or maybe, just:

"It's. All. Going. To. Be. Okay."

If I were to come across any of those articles I would be relieved, gratified...would feel in the bosom of my pregnant community.  But instead, most of the questions/comments and write-ups regarding pregnancy and mood-swings all seem to be stories of women yelling at their husbands because they put their candies in the freezer (no joke), or having four-alarm meltdowns about acne, or just generally describing themselves as "crazy BeYotches" (that's an exact quote)...during pregnancy.  These revelations do not give me any comfort.  I can not, will not, be reduced to calling myself a crazy BeYotch. Yo.

So, I guess it's up to me. I will write the article. The one about how pregnant women have mood swings about things other than just their pregnancy. About how even though the closer I get the more confident I get, in many ways, about my ability to be a mother, and the more excited I feel about actually meeting this little person who is curled up, as I write this, with her little feets under my ribcage... it is also true that the closer I get, the more I start to realize how much my life is about to change. And how much I don't know what that's going to mean, or feel like, or look like. And that it's sort of scary.  And that sometimes it makes me feel selfish and petty and like I don't want to let go of any of what is only me and mine. And that I'm sure I'm not alone in this.

(Or god, at least I hope not).

So, my fellow pregnant mommas, my fellow non-pregnant mommas, my fellow crazy BeYotches...(couldn't resist).  I'm here reporting from the trenches. I'm here to say that as miraculous and exciting and love-filled as so much of this pregnancy has been, there are also some parts that are just downright upsetting. And not just because the nursery isn't turning out the way you planned. And that it's okay. And that you're not alone. Which is good. Because it also means that I'm not. So, thank you.  Because, I needed that.

Starting Over. And over. And over. And over.

I am a terrible journal-er.

I have always tried to be a good journal-writer, and in my more angst-y teens and twenties, I was fairly diligent about it.

I wrote
A lot of poems
That weren't really poems,
but just long, long sentences,
that I divided up
into separate lines
for meaning
and

emphasis.

But, as I've gotten older, my journaling has become more sporadic and every year less and less excusable.  In my mind, I always imagine I'm going to be one of those older women with boxes of journals that highlight her artistic and spiritual development. Little works of art that she can pass down to her children and grandchildren.  But, in order for that to be reality, I would have to be one of those women who journaled about all the beauty in her life. One of those people who filled her journal with tiny paintings and detailed descriptions of the blooming orange tree at the bottom of her steps. (I have one of those, btw...it has never appeared in my journal).  Or better still, one of those women who wrote only about her ideas...about projects and images and all kinds of other healthy, adjusted, artistic stuff.

I would have to be one of those women and not, as I am, the kind of woman whose journal is full of awkward diatribes about ongoing neurosis, and the occasional poem;

Still written,
as are all the others,
line by line.
By line.
You can not know,
the power of the line break...
until you've tried it.
Namaste.

So, what I end up with are boxes full of journals, full of weird embarrassing gobbeldy-gook. The idea being, that writing the gobbeldy-gook will get it out of my head and onto paper. But most often what actually happens is that it gets out of my head, and onto the paper, and then back into my head again...amplified. Heh heh.

And the worst part? The journals? The ones in the box? They're all only half-full.

Because, at some point, with every one, the percentage of healthy to neurotic journaling tips in favor of the neurotic, I get embarrassed, I vow to change my ways, and then I realize that what I really need, what's really going to help me turn over a new leaf...is a new journal.

So, I box up the old half-full one, I pull out a fresh brand spanking new leather bound treasure trove of possibility, I breathe a deep sigh of relief, and I start over. Blank page. Fresh start. New me.

Only to have the same thing happen, all over again.

But, enough is enough, people! Sitting next to me on the couch right now, as I type this is, is my current journal. You would not be allowed to read it. I really want to abandon it. I really want to close it up, tape it up, and throw it the f* away. So that I can start over. So that I can pretend to start over. So that I can have the momentary satisfaction of the ritual of starting over. But, not this time.  One of my teachers said recently that the practice of yoga is the practice of focus. Of continuing. Of remaining steady. And if I can't make a positive change in what I'm putting out, even in the small world of this leather-bound book, without having to throw everything away and start over...then what am I teaching myself?

It's easy to start again.  It's easy to toss everything up in the air and feel like the world is just possibility. What's hard is to hang in there. What's hard is to allow yourself to stray from the path, to delve deep into teenage poetry, and then to come back to yourself again. Without punishment. And, without having to get rid of everything that came before.