One of These Things is Not Like the Other

...i loved being pregnant with my daughter...i'd never gotten so much sleep, felt so "glowing" or so loved...it was as if i finally understood what all of those birkenstock-wearing, hippie mothers were saying about the joy of pregnancy...that's how i was brave enough to do it the second time...this second, fateful time...this second, fateful, painful time...i know each pregnancy is different, and mothers-to-be can't judge one against the other, but i have a couple of bones to pick with the universe over this little misappropriation of justice that is my pregnancy with twins...

...first, universe, i have a girlfriend who is pregnant with a singleton (yes, that's the lingo we multiple moms use...only a few months into this crazy twin pregnancy and i've adopted the language as effortlessly as i did when i picked up spanish in a tijuana bar) and isn't sick, in pain, dizzy...she hasn't fainted, vomited, or spent days in bed because of the mammoth parasite that has taken over her body...she doesn't even LOOK pregnant yet...and she's two weeks farther along than me...meanwhile, i look as if a pinto has parked itself in my uterus and has decided to have a little work done to expand its interior...where is the justice in having her glorious pregnancy flaunted before me like so much single-baby chutzpah?

...second, universe, why must the nerve pinching pain explore all four appendages, sailing overnight to reach the next joint or limb like a round of marco polo...so that each morning, before i even move from a fitful night of sleep i have to assess what part of my body will need the heating pad, the ice pack...or if i have to simply go all in and put my entire inflamed body into the soaker tub...how to cope with five more months of crippling pain, of envy over my daughter's ability to touch her toes, over my husband's unobstructed view of his own feet?

...don't blame this on my tired body...i knew going in it would be hard on my thirty-five-year-old, overweight frame...i'm not out there eating whoppers and fries like i was the first time around...no, i'm sticking to carrots and watermelon and pickles...so why do i feel each morning as if i've downed a liter of lard, as if my body has swollen even more? what is it you're trying to prove, exactly?

...i'm waiting...

...and while i'm at it, quit bombarding me with all of these damned hippie-mother "motherhood is the most glorious thing in the world" emails, letters, and books that i loved the first time around...women who say these things clearly don't rely on the use of their core muscles as much as i do...nor have they ever taken part in the "glorious thing" i call "eating whatever the fuck i want to eat because i'm the only one who has to suffer for it"...

...and, yes, before i begin to sound like an ungrateful little witch-whore, i'm well award of the joys and miracles taking place inside my body (forgetting for a moment that those "miracles" are, really, parasitic pintos)...i know i'm insanely lucky to have even been given another baby, let alone two, when there are people in the world who've wanted one their whole lives, can't get pregnant, can't adopt, or have lost their children to illness or other fates...i get it...i'm grateful...really...

...i just want to be MORE grateful...so can you, please, lay off my nervous system, give me one day without pain...one day to play with my daughter, to make my own damned dinner so my husband doesn't have to come home from work and slave at the stove, to take a walk around the block and not have to call for a ride home because my feet have suddenly lost all feeling?

...is this too much to ask?...