At 25 weeks I’m still comfortable and content. In other circumstances I might take this for granted, but when I get near daily reminders from strangers to “feel better” (I have no idea why they assume I feel awful. Is it my face? Am I making some horrible face I’m unaware of?), I guess I have to remind myself that it’s pretty good to be me. Moments like right now, I feel as if life were perfect. But then I remember that I couldn’t possibly bring myself to write a 25 week update last night because I was so incredibly morose. Hmmm…shall we blame this on pregnancy hormones or my normal cocktail of neuroses?
So though I’m relatively physically comfortable, I’m probably certifiable. I didn’t feel this way–this emotionally wonky–until second trimester. I have to wonder if I’m psyching myself out by all the pregnancy and post-partum depression warnings I hear. Everyone from my mom to strangers at the airport have been preparing me for doom and gloom in the wake of of the babypocalypse. Am I taking it too much to heart? Or is the fact that an episode of Dr. Who brought me nearly to tears and made me feel, for hours, as if all of my friends have also been absorbed into the skin of the alien monster a sign of something more sinister?
I don’t know, friends. What do you think?