Don't Make Me a Liar

Please don't ask me how I'm doing.  I will lie to you.  Because I can't tell you...
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I can't tell you that I'm in the most pain I have ever experienced, and have yet to feel a single contraction.

I can't tell you how my hands swell and ache, making the simplest daily tasks painful and frustrating. Or that I haven't had feeling in my right middle finger in weeks, as much as I've wanted to use it. Because that's a dumb thing to complain about. 

I can't tell you that every step I take is excruciating.  That each movement of my body causes a stabbing pain in my pelvis that takes my breath away.  It's just not something you talk about.

I can't tell you how angry it makes me every time (several times a night) I wake myself up at night screaming in pain, only to find that my husband hasn't even flinched.  Because then you would know that I'm a terrible, selfish wife.

While we're on the topic, I can't tell you how lonely it feels to be up in the  middle of the night while I listen to his snoring in the next room.  This awful, ungrateful, self-serving spouse wants nothing more than to shake him awake and make him be miserable and exhausted with me.

In fact, I can't tell you how horrid I feel as I sit at home alone with my chubby feet propped up while my husband is out with friends and want nothing more than for him to feel guilty about it.  What kind of monster would do that?  Surely I must not love him.

I can't tell you that I've pooped myself twice just this week!  Although, how hilarious would your face be? "How are you doing, Ami?" "Oh, you know. I pooped myself this morning!" Because, ew.

I can't tell you how stupid I feel when I knock something over at the store and a pre-teen girl casually comes by and sets it back up, telling me how cute I am.  I know that in my case, "cute" means clumsy and awkward.  The only thing that makes my condition cute is the expected outcome of this process. That's just me being prideful.

I can't tell you how non-comforting it is for you to tell me how many women would love to be in my shoes.  I would love to be in my shoes.

Actually, I can't tell you that I have frequently cried over my fabulous shoe collection -- which I happen to be aware I may never fit into again.  (Even if I could tell you, I wouldn't because you would feed me some lie about how my body will go back to normal.  Come on, we're all adults here. Just because I kept that stack of Silver jeans doesn't mean I actually expect to wear them again.) How shallow would that make me sound?

I can't tell you what a horrible mother I already am.  That I feel some actual resentment for the writhing creature inside me that has already seemingly taken so much from me.  Dignity. Self-esteem. Sleep. My ankles. My beautiful shoes. 

There are so many things I can't tell you.

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Listen.  I knew this would be hard. I've waited a long time to get here. I know that most of this is temporary.  But pretty please, in the meantime... Don't ask how I'm doing. Don't ask if I need anything.  Don't ask if I ate ice cream for dinner.

I will lie to you.