I hated being pregnant. Is it OK to say those words out loud? I love my kids. That’s probably a better way to start. Yes, I am certainly grateful that I was able to have them. But I really hated being pregnant. I can’t be the only woman who really feels this way.

I’ll start with the obvious. I hate being fat. And I do get fat! I eat, but certainly not enough to warrant the 50-pound gain during both of my pregnancies. When my doctor suggested buying a scale, I knew I was in trouble. I always used the zipper trick. If my jeans closed, I was fine.
I hated feeling nauseous every day, all day. It did not go away. I never threw up. I would have felt better if I did.

I hated burping, tooting and the feeling of a big bubble under my heart all of the time. It’s amazing I didn’t overdose on Tums. It now makes sense that my 4- and-a-half-year-old keeps asking for those “yummy tummy vitamins” — he was born addicted!


I also hated you. You, and you, and you! All of you! (My guess is you hated me too). Everyone and everything bothered me. I had no patience, no sensitivity and certainly no filter. It was a problem at work and at home. I began to hate my job, hate my friends and sometimes even my husband. I also hated every question from every single person — even people I didn’t know. When are you due? What are you having? (Don’t know — that’s the only thing getting me through this miserable experience). Oh how cute — are you having twins? (No, I’m just fat.)

There are certain things about pregnancy that I enjoyed: mostly, the day my babies were born. I’ll never forget when, weeks after giving birth, people would ask me when I was due, and I had to break the news that I already had my baby. But, luckily after each pregnancy, I did realize what I’d always been told — it was all worth it! And after two pregnancies, I know I will never do it again. I’m choosing to stay married, stay employed, and stay happy. And happy for me — is not being pregnant.

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