Midweek Prayers: Sequels Stink

I'm convinced that it's generally new versions of the same old crap that bite me in the butt, rather than new stuff.

When my sweet friends found out I was pregnant, many of them said, "you're going to be such a cute pregnant lady!"  And since I think pretty much all pregnant ladies are cute, I agreed.

Because I totally forgot about my fucking boobs.  Which are outpacing my tiny belly at a horrific rate*, and succeeding (once again) in making me dumpy instead of darling.  Now, 6 months in, when no one can tell I'm expecting unless they're told (well, and Dave, who's lovely, but doesn't count), I realize that the same body stuff that stank 20 years ago pretty much still stinks.

I feel 13 again (because I'm still the middle schooler being told she looked like a whore for wearing a shirt unbuttoned over a tank top).  Or 19 (because I'm still the college girl whose boobs were the only thing anyone suggested as a reason a man would be interested in her).  Or any of the other ages where my body was fair game for public discourse, and assumptions were made about who I was based on my shape.  (I do not feel at all like 21 or 30, where I figured out how to turn lemons into lemonade.  Melons into some sort of daiquiri, I guess.)  I feel conspicuous, not in the warm, maternal, hoped-for way, but in the "these are all anyone sees of me... AGAIN" way.  I had a lovely two weeks in the first trimester where I thought, "I don't have to hide these-- they're pregnancy boobs!  It's finally acceptable!"  But that was 3 cup sizes ago.

I wanted to look like a mom, and instead I look like more of a caricature than I did to start with.  I wanted to embody something joyful; instead I look even more like the same old ugly jokes and jibes.  Same old stuff.  New version.

I know in my head that the trick is to shut out the voices around me (and the echoes of old voices that I let bounce around), and try to hear the voice of the One who designed me.  My heart just wants to sit on the floor and wail, though.  I need prayers beyond my own to get my head and heart on the same page.

*This is, incidently, not the time for the "miracle of life, and accepting your changing body" speech.  I love watching the baby move every night when I go to bed.  The kicks are sometimes uncomfortable, but I'm always happy to think that wiggling means the little cheeseburger is doing OK.  This is not about that. That is not helpful.