My entire life has led me to this. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a mom. Among my friends, I was always “the mother hen,” always taking care of them, trying to stop them from doing anything too stupid, making sure everyone got home safely. You get the picture. At the risk of sounding ridiculous – maybe we could say it was my calling.
My husband and I got pregnant with ease, which we are eternally grateful for. Needless to say, we were ecstatic.
The day I found out I was pregnant, I had an appointment with my naturopathic doctor. She was incredibly supportive and offered sage advice, in addition to the suggestion that I get my progesterone levels tested. She explained that low levels of progesterone may lead to miscarriage and we already had concerns that I had some hormonal imbalances.
Without support from my GP at the time (who blatantly refused to add it to my bloodwork requisition), I paid $40 for a requisition through my ND, to get tested. Once we got the results, it was clear my levels were very low or non-existent. I was referred to a fertility specialist, who prescribed progesterone injections throughout my pregnancy. I had blood work done every two weeks to test my levels. The number of shots corresponded to my levels and ranged from one shot twice per week in each cheek (yes, in my butt cheek) to one shot once per week. My husband had to learn how to administer the shots and became a pro.
Other than the progesterone, constant nausea, mild sciatica, hip pain, and Pubis Symphysis Diastis (or Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction), I had a good pregnancy. I gained about 27 pounds, although it felt like way more. And I tried to exercise regularly, until the third trimester.
It wasn’t too long into the pregnancy that I started to question everything and worry. My midwives were incredibly supportive, knowledgeable and encouraging. My mother was an angel. And, my husband was so sweet and understanding. Except for that one Valentine’s Day weekend…
I made sure to be grateful for something every day. Once we found out we were having a boy, we were set on EJ’s name. I spoke to him. I sang, “You are my sunshine” to my belly almost every day. And I played with his hands or feet once they started poking me visibly. And then, when my sleep was interrupted because of kicking or discomfort, and getting up, dressed and off to work became more of a chore than anything, I wished for him to arrive. Even before his due date hit, I was ready to become Mama.
Mama. Even saying it then, it felt so surreal. Even with my nine-months pregnant belly protruding so far I couldn’t see my feet, I didn’t believe it was coming to be. Despite the shots, the seemingly endless pregnancy, and the reality of it, it felt like a dream.
I was about to become someone’s Mama. I was about to bring life into this world. I was about to give up the life I knew and understand true purpose. I was about to become everything to a tiny human, who I would nurture and love unconditionally.
And then it came to be – I was “Mama.” It’s as powerful and surreal to me now, as it was then.
The Guilty Mama 