ToBP

Toward the end of the pregnancy, moms-in-waiting are encouraged to make more frequent visits to the OB/GYN or midwife.  During one such visit, the midwife I saw indicated that she wrote in my file that I was suffering from ToBP.

ToBP (or TBP) is a very common condition and nothing too serious--or at least, nothing anyone else takes seriously.  It's an acronym for Tired of Being Pregnant.

And she was right.  I was very tired of being pregnant.  I was also just very tired.  And sore.  And constantly having heartburn.  People kept telling me I would have relief once the baby "dropped".  Not so.  He was so large that it was almost indistinguishable when he did hang a little lower inside my belly.  And he kept kicking me.  Hard.

It's not unusual, therefore, for women to start feeling a little resentful of their wee one.  I began asking the little dear to hurry up and come on out, as I was sure he was sufficiently done cooking in the oven.

About a week before my due date, I wrote a diatribe denouncing all the "evils" of pregnancy that a woman experiences, even when things go perfectly well.  For example, the worse a woman's morning sickness, the better, they say.   (I kept track on a calendar of every time my nausea turned productive.  Jackson was VERY healthy.)

My conclusions then were somewhat superficial, though I still support them more than a year since:

1. Women deserve to be thanked for enduring an entire pregnancy, regardless of whether or not they were good parents afterward
2. The only reasons women willingly get impregnated subsequent to the first time are either induced by alcohol or the result of some form of amnesia, possibly both
3. The first child was probably the result of alcohol or amnesia, too

Sure, there are couples out there who naively seek to deliberately create their own temporary opaque human aquariums.  These people are also usually the ones who have a difficult time conceiving.  Coincidence?  I think not.  These types remind me of the beer called Celebration, put out by Sierra Nevada.

The back story:  A completely awesome group of people gathers each Saturday night at a house in Tampa.  One night, while I was a regular attendee, an unsuspecting member of our group purchased a 6-pack of Celebration.  He took a sip of his bottle and pronounced it foul and undrinkable.  Of the 10 or so of us there that night, nearly every one proceeded to then attempt to try a taste of something so putrid it needed to be experienced first hand.  A final assessment of Celebration deemed the flavor reminiscent of beer that had been regurgitated and strained through dirty pantyhose before being rebottled.  

"Oh, it's terrible!" 

"Let me try!"

Now, I'm not essaying to tell people not to have children.  Far from it!  But it's not all roses and sunshine.  For a year and a half, I never once slept a full night through.  For the first 6 months of Jackson's life, I spent a great deal of time wearing clothing covered in spit up, since he had reflux issues.  Conception, pregnancy, birth, and infancy are not for the delicate of manners.  They are gross.  Period.

And then...well, I have historically been a typical Floridian, feeling chill at 72F.  I used to keep my thermostat set to about 80F or 82F in the summer, and was quite fine with it.  However, the last month of my pregnancy was spent burning hot.  In December.  With the air conditioning running.  Poor Andrew, my darling husband, suffered manfully while I pushed the thermostat down to 62F at night, kicking off the blankets because it was sooo hot.

We were ready for Jackson to find the light at the end of the tunnel and venture forth into a brave new world.