Pregnancy: The Only Time a Woman Is Allowed to Be Lazy?

Pregnancy: The Only Time a Woman Is Allowed to Be Lazy?

I recently noticed that pregnancy is an excuse for everything. As a pregnant woman, I can get away with nearly anything because who would yell at a woman toting a beach ball under her shirt? Heartless bastards, that's who. For a while, I went from being way too stubborn about getting help to automatically assuming it will be granted without me asking. This happened after thirty-five weeks of doing my own work without getting help from anyone near me. I was determined to not let pregnancy claim my work ethic and become an excuse for everything. Sadly, when I finally gave in, I gave in hard.

Pregnant
Credit: JodyDigger.

True, that my pregnancy makes most things difficult that would otherwise be simple for normal people. For instance, bending is something I will only attempt to do if sexy times are involved. Otherwise, it doesn’t happen. The dog’s bowls are suddenly too far on the floor. The chip that I dropped under my desk three weeks ago is still there, most likely forming an uprising with the various live cultures growing off it. Anything with shoe laces is strictly forbidden unless I am sitting with my feet elevated for application, and I have about four packages that needed a post office last week.

These things are all legitimate problems that require assistance in most cases. Anytime I try to bend, my baby gets angry. A foot ends up in a ribcage, and a head rams so far into my bladder, I can’t tell if the warm feelings I get are from her touch or the fact that I probably just urinated on myself. I am full term, and should note that these issues didn’t really haunt me until around thirty-five weeks. Dignity has been a snowball rolling down Mount Everest since then, and it is quickly gaining speed.

You don’t really learn to appreciate the ease of getting out of bed until you start to resemble a turtle on its shell. When the dog starts staring at you with curious humor, as if you’re playing a game, and your husband whips out the iPhone to snap a video before helping you, it becomes time to take matters into your own hands. So I simply wait until he putters off to the kitchen with the dog, and then I silently (save for a few grunts) take my three minutes of maneuvering and proudly walk into the kitchen as if I just beat Jillian Michaels at kickboxing.

It all started when I eventually embraced being incapable of performing most basic functions and just let people help me. It happened slowly at first, with much persistence by bystanders to give me a hand. I would still proudly stand on the subway and politely decline if someone offered a seat. I would get up from my comfortable spot on the couch that took five minutes to achieve and grab my own water from the kitchen. Hell, last week I was still shoving boxes around my apartment and cleaning in a way that would make Monica from Friends jealous. After that day of power cleaning, however, I had severe lower back pain for about two days. Then I eventually decided it wasn’t so bad to take the seat on the train and maybe my husband could plug in the Christmas lights behind the TV. When I finally started letting him help me, he was drenched with relief. Thank God, she finally gave in. I can stop looking like an asshole in public when she insists on carrying her own bags.

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