And then I actually lost my mind

January 18th, 2012 |Published in babies, pregnancy | Link to this Post| 1 reply

We have a nightly ritual, should John get home while I am still awake (and because of a certain giant chocolate thumb that hasn’t happened much recently), he reads to the baby (ie; to my tummy), and rubs Mama Bee Body Oil onto me.  The reading definitely gets the baby moving about and STEPPING ON MY BLADDER (I swear this kid is just messing with me sometimes).  The oil is suppose to encourage/maintain physical closeness (hahahahahahahahahahaha) and also ward off stretchmarks.

Now I’m not an idiot, I know that nothing can actually ward off stretchmarks, that it’s all in the genes.  If your mum had or didn’t have them, then chances are you’ll be the same.  I know that many a cosmetic and drug company make literally billions of pounds every year selling the dream of a stretch mark and wrinkle free body.  I also know that I already have stretchmarks, I have a few faint ones on my boobs from puberty, and a few on my thighs from too fast weight loss.  You can’t really see any of these unless I grab your face, push it up against my body and say “HERE! HERE THEY ARE!”, so by and large they don’t bother me.

Last night John was putting on the oil and I noticed him just pour a little extra onto his fingers and pay one section at the side a little extra attention.  I looked at him, he said “well, maybe…”, I removed his hand and there it was, an ugly red welt about three inches long next to a smaller one.  I lost it, a reaction which was totally unexpected, I had been quite stoic when considering stretch marks, if it happens it happens, what are you going to do?!  They’re battle scars, war wounds, life etched onto your skin, be proud of them, they’re physical proof that you have lived.  But in that moment, looking at what felt like an acre of skin, scarred by an angry red line, and knowing that I still have 12 weeks to go, I was devastated.  I felt for a second, after a day of constant weeing, aching and heartburn, like I was never going to make it out of this alive.

So I cried, and John listened, as my tears fell and mingled with almond and lemon oil, and every tiny fear that I have held down came pouring out.  Fears that I never even knew I had because everytime they threaten to come to the surface I push them back down.  They are apparently as follows:

• Ending up with a stomach like a road map, you’ve seen them, they’re not pleasant.
• Never losing the weight, ever, ending up in elasticated jogging bottoms, XXL t.shirts and ugly shoes, FOREVER.
• That there is something wrong with the baby, something they can’t see on a scan.

I berated myself for the first two, it is after all a most superficial and ridiculous thing to be that upset about stretchmarks when you have hit the fertility jackpot the way we have, and if I’m honest, I think the stretchmark was just a catalyst for me to have a big cry after a crappy day.  I also think that the second fear is crazy because why would I let that happen to me?  Jogging bottoms?  XXL t.shirts?  Why would I allow myself to become that person?  I have essentially painted my future as greasy haired trailer trash, discounting the very important facts that 1.  I wash my hair, always have, 2)  I don’t even wear jogging bottoms to do exercise, and 3)  our NCT classes are in MUSWELL HILL, that alone removes all chance of me living in a trailer, they just don’t do trailers in Muswell Hill, they do Jude Law.

The third one though, that’s the fear, that’s the one that keeps me awake and stops me allowing myself to dream of a rose tinted future.  What if this baby isn’t the giggling, dribbling delight we dream he or she will be? What if, for reasons far beyond my control, there is something wrong? 

And that’s when I stopped, that’s when I shut it all down, because what can we do except hope for the best?  I take the supplements, I eat the fuit and vegetables, I don’t drink or smoke, I do yoga, I get plenty of rest, we talk to the baby and plan for ways he or she might be soothed, I listen to the hypnobirthing CD and take the NCT classes, there is nothing else to be done.  Problems that we cannot foresee are not in our hands. 

Of course, the next thing I did was pull myself together and have a closer look at the offending stretchmark, the nasty little that had started all this off, only to find it had BLOODY VANISHED.  I must have scratched myself somehow and I hadn’t noticed, but here I sit 12 hours later and it still hasn’t come back.  So all that drama and all those tears, and it wasn’t even real!  I feel cheated, I almost want it to come back to justify the mess it had made of my brain.  Still, it turns out stretchmarks have a positive side – free therapy.