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While at a wedding a few weeks back, a good deal of conversation was had with various parties regarding The Sesame Seed.

At this stage, she has made herself quite visible and is an easy and obvious point of discussion.

I was chatting with one acquaintance who had his 9-month old son in tow. He and his wife are also both doctors-to-be. Babies, pregnancy, and childbirth were very natural, unsurprising topics as well as mutual points of interest for our conversation.

He commented that I must be at that stage in the pregnancy where I would be happy to have The Sesame Seed vacate the premises sooner rather than later, recounting his wife’s own discomfort and dreams of childbirth when she hit the 3rd trimester.

Let me just pause and say that it is a miraculously adaptive and genius biological trait that the 3rd trimester is so ungodly unbearable that women actually look forward to labor and delivery. We pray for that burning ring of fire just to end the misery of the achy cankles, the pea-sized bladder, and the constant pressure and pain of a watermelon sitting squarely between our legs, directly on our vagina, which is routinely punched and pushed by a human form.

Nice call, Evolution.

I responded affirmatively. I will be putting out an eviction notice come August 1st.

You hear me? You got two weeks, kid. Four, tops.

I then went on to say that I actually found little of pregnancy enjoyable and that I had been looking forward to her due date from the moment that blue positive line appeared on the pee stick in November.

He responded that he rarely hears women express such a sentiment, although he wished that he heard such candor more often as it seems not to be an uncommon feeling, but one that is taboo and unacceptable to convey outwardly.

I have encountered a number of people, especially fellow women (many of them mothers), whose jaws drop with shock when I speak such feelings. It’s just not done.

Women are supposed to adore being pregnant. We are supposed to radiate joy and light and shoot rainbows out of our asses, so filled with the miracle of life are we. Heaven forbid we discuss the unpleasantness of what growing an entire person entails. WE GET TO GIVE LIFE. IS IT NOT OUR MOST JOYOUS CALLING?

While I know that there are some women that do indeed enjoy pregnancy, women that glow, women that are radiant (lucky, bitches), I am not one of them. Far from.

Don’t get me wrong, I am beyond grateful every day to be able to experience what it means to bear and give life. I am awed by the thought of two hearts beating within me. I even find magic in those kicks that send my spleen careening into my small intestine causing ruckus flatulence or the burning urge to pee.

Oh, let’s be real, they cause me to pee. This is baby #2 after all.

DO YOUR KEGELS, LADIES. DO. YOUR. KEGELS.

I don’t think that the making of another human being in any way should be an easy task.

It’s not.

It’s hard. It’s uncomfortable. It’s all-consuming.

And hell yes, it’s worth it.

But I shouldn’t have to pretend like it’s not one of the toughest things my body will ever endure.

No woman should.

Now if someone could go ahead and rub my feet, because, ya know, carrying around an extra 30lbs that rearranges one’s entire organ structure does a number on the legs. Oh, and a large chocolate milkshake would be grand. I’m eating for two after all.

See, pregnancy does have its perks.