Now that I’m working on my third baby, I think I finally understand this phrase. “A pregnant pause”; I always thought it just meant the pause was, shall we say, rather large. I no longer believe this is the case. Rather, it seems that it’s called a pregnant pause because everything comes grinding to a complete, abrupt halt.
That’s what has happened in my life for the last four-and-a-half months. House cleaning has fallen by the wayside, writing simply hasn’t happened, and exercising? Well, don’t mention it within a couple yards of me unless you brought my puke bowl with you! It seems that despite the myriad promises I have made to myself, those months have fallen into the black hole of the past with very little to show for it beyond my ever-increasing baby bump. Not that that isn’t an accomplishment in and of itself, but really. I ought to be able to clean a bathroom at least once in a 120 day period.
The pregnant pause is only prolonged by that fact that one can tell oneself over and over again, “Well, as soon as I feel better I’ll be at it again.” But when does that happen? It’s like a pregnant conversational pause: The longer you let it go on uninterrupted, the worse it gets. Finally there comes a point when I have to take pity on my darling husband and start pulling my weight again(okay, my weight and then some…!) and, as the walrus said, “The time has come.” Just like being a mommy to small kiddies can’t dictate my entire life, being pregnant can’t either.
Of course, it helps that I’m not running for the bathroom every hour or so. Not to puke at least, anyway. I have just a short 20 weeks until I have another small dictator in my life. I’m thrilled to be adding to the crew, but I’d best enjoy (and employ) the freedom while I can.