10 unexpected benefits of pregnancy
I’m not going to pretend that I love being pregnant. Nothing induces anxiety in me like the almost total lack of control over the tiny human who is growing in my womb.
That being said, there are a few benefits – things that I didn’t fully appreciate the first time around:
- I no longer have to pluck my chin hairs every other day, presumably due to the rush of pregnancy hormones. It’s more like once a week now, which feels like winning. Those sneaky, wiry little bastards have been defeated (somewhat) by my body’s sky-high levels of estrogen.
- I can always get a seat on the train. All I have to do is unbutton my coat and flash my big ol’ belly, and someone will offer my their seat. Usually a woman. Dudes, it doesn’t hurt to stop manspreading for a second to notice the giant preggo lady giving you a death stare.
- I have an excuse to wear leggings pretty much every day. At this point, I can’t remember why I ever wore proper trousers and am not sure I ever will again. I ran a workshop in a pair of jeggings and a blazer recently, and I kind of rocked it.
- I get to spend Sunday afternoons laying in bed reading while my husband entertains our three-year-old because ‘I need to rest’. In fairness, I AM pretty knackered most of the time, but that probably has as much to do with my habit of staying up late trying to be clever on Twitter as it does with being pregnant.
- I have an excuse to eat all the time. With my stomach squashed up against my spleen or whatever (biology was never my strong point), I can’t physically eat that much at once. I get to graze constantly instead, like a farm animal.
- It seems perfectly acceptable – reasonable, even – to have chocolate every day. The baby likes it, after all. I can tell because she does somersaults whenever I eat it. A child after my own heart.
- My hair looks almost…good. Not great, mind you. Still pretty wild. But it’s borderline presentable these days, and I’ll take it.
- My husband has to clean the cat’s litter tray so I don’t get toxoplasmosis. This is really convenient, because my cat is a filthy animal who doesn’t bother to bury his poop, then runs around the house shouting about the fact that he’s just taken a dump.
- No one expects me to carry anything but the kid in my womb. My daughter has even stopped asking me to pick her up, because she gets that it’s hard for me to lift much besides my own stomach.
- I’m never alone, even in the middle of the night. When I wake up at 3am – as I inevitably do, because my legs feel like someone has been pummeling them for hours – I like to check in with my little companion.
“You doing okay?” I whisper to her.
Kick. Kick kick kick.
“Cool,” I say. “Me too.”