I am one to always count my blessings, and choose to see the good in people. I accept that I do not suffer fools gladly, but that does not mean I all together refuse to see the humor in what would usually irritate the *cuss out of me, in regards to the fools that is.
Following recent events, I have been forced to take stalk of my life and accept what is coming to me. Someone, who much to my surprise walked away unscathed told me that I was young and beautiful… now I am just beautiful. That back handed compliment brought reality in its high heeled Gucci wearing self to my face and made me take a long hard look.
I AM OLD.
Much as I hate to admit it, I am no spring chicken. Ayi Kwei Armah did not lie when he titled “the beautiful ones are not yet born”, and in as much as I am a fat lady, I REFUSE to sing. This one has a lot of spank left and I am not afraid to use it… after I come back from maternity leave.
Yes people, maternity leave. After swearing that I was done, and would never ever ever ever have another one, I found myself huffing and puffing and springing forth one more for the road. What made me change my mind was a very sobering conversation I had with my Gyna. He candidly pointed out that I was not getting younger, and given his experience, he strongly advises women past 35 against childbirth. It is easy to dismiss this as poppycock, given that we Africans have the strength of an Ox and have been known to push one out and continue toiling the earth until dusk. I hereby bear testament that this no longer holds true, not for me at least.
Maybe its because I am plus size, which made me overly tired and not tolerant of humanity during the ten less than glorious months. Maybe it’s my age that had me balloon and retain water like a dam. Maybe its because round three is simply tedious, and your body would rather not suffer extra work because it doesn’t feel like it. I don’t know, what I can tell you is this; get all your babies early, and get it over and done with! My doc knew what he was on about, and I will not even delved into all the other medical irregularities that come with geriatric pregnancies. I will leave that for you to explore. I know that there are many factors to consider before childbirth, I am not blind to them, but do consult your doctor in good time, age is not just a number in this regard.
On a lighter note, I came across this article that had my sides ache from laughing. She totally captured what I went through, and I figured it is worth sharing. Enjoy!
10 ways you know it’s your third pregnancy.
This post was first published by the TODAY Parenting Team.
There are plenty of things I wished I’d known before we brought home our first baby, from the total absurdity of “sleep when the baby sleeps” to the desperate loneliness of the witching hour. Now, at the end of my third pregnancy, I’ve learned that there’s only one way to learn it all. Live it. And, by the skin of your teeth, just try to survive.
1st pregnancy: You book cross-country flights to tell the family in-person, then videotape everyone’s reaction, edit the video and share it on social media.
2nd pregnancy: You take professional pictures and post them on Facebook.
3rd pregnancy: Everyone gets a text.
1st pregnancy: Your husband constantly asks you how you’re feeling, and you get a foot rub on a nightly basis.
2nd pregnancy: You get one prenatal massage, but only because a friend bought you a gift card.
3rd pregnancy: No one cares.
1st pregnancy: You buy prenatal vitamins before your first OB appointment, and take them daily, at the same time of day.
2nd pregnancy: At 14 weeks, you remember you need to buy them, but only because you were in the Target pharmacy section looking for toddler Tylenol.
3rd pregnancy: Your husband asks about prenatals somewhere in month 4. You finally buy them about 6 weeks later, and then, they sit forgotten in a bathroom drawer for the remainder of the pregnancy. You’re lucky if you remember once a week.
1st pregnancy: You write thank you cards for baby shower gifts on monogrammed, personalized stationery, and go to the post office to pick out the perfect stamps.
2nd pregnancy: You thank everyone via email.
3rd pregnancy: You send a generic, group Facebook message to everyone who was at the shower (if you even had one).
1st pregnancy: For your babymoon, you spend 5 relaxing nights in a beachfront room at a luxury resort in St. Marteen.
2nd pregnancy: You convince your mom to come stay with your toddler, so you can squeeze in a weekend to Key West.
3rd pregnancy: Nothing can make you leave your own bed. (And no one wants to watch your kids anyway.)
1st pregnancy: You spend months picking out the perfect lighting fixtures, paint colors and expensive designer crib for the nursery.
2nd pregnancy: You wash the crib sheets.
3rd pregnancy: What nursery?
1st pregnancy: You read What to Expect When You’re Expecting like it’s the Bible.
2nd pregnancy: You open the book once, but only because you want to know how much alcohol you can safely consume on your vacation.
3rd pregnancy: You have no idea where the book is and don’t even care. At this point, any reading just takes away from what you really need to do. Which is sleep.
1st pregnancy: Approximately 6 weeks before your due date, you install the car seat in the perfectly-clean, cream-colored leather interior of your luxury sedan (which you, hilariously, bought for its ample backseat room, that you reasoned, would be “perfect for kids”).
2nd pregnancy: Car seat goes in right before you go to the hospital. And, by 4 days post-baby, you realize you need a bigger car.
3rd pregnancy: You now own a Suburban, and the day you’re supposed to leave the hospital, your hubby uncovers the car seat in a dark, dusty corner of the garage.
1st pregnancy: You eat well, exercise throughout and only gain 35 pounds.
2nd pregnancy: You exercise occasionally and eat like a pig.
3rd pregnancy: You exercise less than 5 times, and are up 30 pounds before the third trimester even begins.
1st pregnancy: You don’t drink a stitch of alcohol.
2nd pregnancy: You have an occasional glass of wine, but only during the toddler’s transition to his big boy bed.
3rd pregnancy: You go to a brewery the night you find out you’re pregnant and ask friends to bring wine to the hospital.