September so far

I've been feeling better these last few days. I sleep a LOT - ten hours is the absolute minimum - but then I have a lot more energy and don't tire out so easily. I have to remember to drink about four litres of fluids a day, as that's the only thing that manages to keep both the swelling in my legs and my bowels in check. It's not easy, mind you; not only because of the constant loo trips, but also because the size of my stomach has gone down considerably. This should be a good thing, keeping my eating in check and all, but the end result is that I fill my belly with herbal tea or water, feel hungry, eat something - even a little something - and then feel sick and bloated and get heartburn because, hey, there's not enough space in there!

Robin has been very active for a couple of days now. His favourite time to start practising his moves is from late afternoon well into the evening. I can feel him higher and higher now, which is a relief, as I can still remember the pain and - honestly - fear I felt every time he'd punch me in the cervix. Bladder and anus are fine, but cervix? Stay away, boy.

I'm still not showing that much. The belly I have is very low and still looks more like a beer belly than a baby! I can, however, confidently put to rest the myth that if you're carrying all tidy and out front then you have a boy, but if it's sideways and more all over the place it's a girl. So far I have more baby weight on my hips and bum and thighs than in my belly, and Robin is certainly a boy (unless the baby was flipping us off from between the legs and that was a middle finger we saw, not a penis).

My life in Germany is beginning to take shape. I've got a job, doing PR/marketing/design for a small software company. I'm beginning a language course come the 30th; hopefully I won't have fallen too far from where I took a break, which was B1.2. We're doing up Michał's bachelor flat, with every day it's looking more and more homely - we'll even finally have a washing machine, believe it or not! I've also started going to the gym with Michał's sister, Kasia. It's good to be back, even if so far the only things I can really work on are the cross-trainers and the different spinning machines.

So yes, things are looking up and looking good :) Come October I'll be getting my national insurance card and I'll be hitting those surgeries like it's 1999, so best make of September what I still can!

I seem to have a problem with other peoples' expectations of me.

Let me explain.

It's not about the fact that people want me to do something else than what I have planned for myself. I'm fine with that, I also have no trouble with ignoring what they want and doing what I want. In fact, I'm so good at it that this is exactly what causes a problem - I tend to flat-out reject what others say, without sparing it a thought while I'm doing whatever it is that I want to do, then I start analysing. Thinking. Mulling it over. Once I've already done it, or decided, or made my opinion so well known that everyone raised an eyebrow (not necessarily because of the opinion itself, but because of the fashion in which I did it). Then I start thinking that maybe - just maybe - that other person had had a point. And that while I still want to do what I had decided, maybe I could take their opinion on board. Maybe slightly modify my course of action. I have no trouble with actually admitting it, my ego doesn't bleed when I say "you had a point, I didn't see the other side". Sometimes I just think it over and over again, without any need nor point, just because it had annoyed me, or because I'm trying to see a different aspect to the whole situation. But I do spend so much time feeling bad about maybe having hurt someone's feelings by having rejected their suggestion, or worrying about how my "no" might fold out, what consequences it might have, that it's not much of a consolation.

But this is getting twisted.

We'd decided not to tell anyone besides our parents and siblings that we're expecting a child until the end of the first trimester. I spent those twelve weeks in utter misery - belly pain, bloating, feeling sick, migraines, dizziness, crazy blood pressure, nasty mood swings, having to lie down all of the time, in a word: hell. No exaggeration. None of my clothes fit (thanks to both the bloating and rapid weight gain), I was in constant pain, and because I spent most of my time lying down I had little to talk about. Socialising was certainly on the very end of my list of priorities. When the time had come to tell everyone that there would be a mini-us in a few months, I was slap-bang in the middle of this bog. Everyone's well-wishing smashed against a wall of misery and pain, and while I tried to do my best to smile and be nice, I was always a well-meaning hug away from bursting into tears. Or ripping someone a new one.

(It wasn't only the hormones. It was the guilt I felt whenever someone would ask "But you are happy, aren't you?" and give me a searching look. I'd nod along, say "yes, yes, I wish I'd just feel a bit better", when I knew that the real answer was "no, I'm miserable and depressed and in constant pain and I have no clue what's happening to me or my life and would you please just leave me alone and stop expecting me to be delighted". I felt guilty that I wasn't happy when it was so obviously expected of me. Not because of the child - nothing to do with the child - but because I felt so rubbish that anything beyond my own little hell was of no interest to me. Including the foetus in my belly. Then again, all the pain caused me to be constantly paranoid that there was something wrong. That I'd have a miscarriage any moment. Which made me panic. Which made my belly hurt even more. That I'd been looked at my many doctors, both during routine check-ups and a couple of emergency visits in hospitals both Polish and German, and that everyone had said that there is nothing wrong with the child, and that it's either bladder or intestine pain, calmed me down only until the next painful pang. At the same time, the constant making light or my misery made me angry. Made me want to kick and punch and scream "is this all only about the baby? What am I, a walking incubator?" The way people would wave their hand and go "Oh, don't worry, it'll pass, what's important is that the baby is okay", while I spent days and nights twisted in pain. Fuck your pain. Basically.)

I was not prepared for the onslaught of good advice and attempts to organise my life for me which occurred the moment we went public. I was not ready for the moralising and the patronising tones and every "yeah yeah, you'll see I'm right". This was not helped by the fact that we'd decided not to make any decisions regarding the future until week twelve was behind us. This meant that besides me having to take a year's medical leave from uni (because I could barely sit up, let alone complete my semester, which would require me to sit, walk, carry, spend a lot of time with paint and chemicals, stare at my computer screen for hours on end and all the other things an MA programme at an art academy requires of you) , we'd not even decided which country we were going to stay in. So, when the logical questions of "so what now?" were asked, we could only shrug and say "no idea, we've yet to work it out". Which, perhaps foreseeably, invited even more "good advice". While - you saw it coming - pissed me off. A lot.

"No matter what you do, do not name her Ewa," said Kuba. (Thanks, but your opinion will never be taken under consideration, said I.)

"Well, you'll be staying in Poland anyway, I cannot imagine you'd want to raise a child in Germany," he'd added. (Start working on your imagination, I'd replied.)

"Of course you'll be giving birth in Poland, after all, the child HAS to have it's father's proper surname, Polish letters and all," said Michał's grandfather. (I'd rather it has it's mother's surname, said I.)

"You want the changer in the bathroom? You'll end up moving it into your bedroom anyway, you'll see," said Dominik. (Saying "we have no room in the bedroom for a changer and don't want to sleep in poop-smells anyway" four times had somehow gone ignored.)

"I won't even bother showing you all the baby clothes I have, you'll want them all anyway," Michał's mother had thrown out. (I'd just shut my mouth. She'd be the one transporting them from Poland to Germany anyway, so why start.)

"So, are you getting married now, or after the baby arrives?" had been a favourite amongst family and friends. ("No plans at all yet" had to be quickly followed by changing the subject, or else questions of "But why?!" would emerge.)

"You'll have trouble feeding the baby naturally at first, I can guarantee you that," Asia had said. (I'd stayed quiet at this one, as well. Couldn't be bothered with pointing out that she'd had a C-section, which can often affect lactation at first.)

"You don't want Michał next to you for the birth? That's not a good decision. You'll change your mind, you'll see," Paulina had waved her hand. (This during the same conversation that I'd described before. Luckily I was long past caring by then.)

Every time I heard something like this, regardless of whether I'd replied or not, of whether it was stupid or not, whether I was sure of my decision or not, I'd start thinking. Are they right? Am I right? How can I tell? What are the possibilities? (Queue: film reel of all the possibilities my tired mind can squeeze out.) What do I do? Do I change my mind? Was I nice? Did I come across as stuck-up? Stubborn? What if this comes back to bite me? What if I never hear the end of it? How will I have to adjust my future actions?

It's bad enough when the questions take up my mind during the day. I can be cleaning, or cooking, or drawing, or reading, and something will pop into my head and refuse to leave. But when they arrive at night... Up until very recently I had worried myself awake, which had been an improvement over crying myself into a state of distress (and Michał into a state of confusion). Now I just lie awake and feel the thoughts float around my head. Both they and I know there will be no answers - they either don't exist or make no difference. They still tire me, but with each night I feel myself becoming more and more detached, which gives me hope that one day, I will be able to completely ignore them.

Paulina's pep talk

"You must remember that whether you like it nor not, you're in a very patriarchal relationship."

I nodded along politely, managing to shut my mouth before my incredulity became apparent (or I looked too stupid). That had been the moment in which I had decided that, regardless of how much I like Paulina, there really is no point in trying to meaningfully keep up this conversation. Because the moment she had said the words "patriarchal relationship", I'd seen before my eyes the boyish, pleading grimace Michał always puts on when he's hungry, and with which he follows me around, badgering me to make him something to eat, sometimes not eating at all if I was out or busy. Or the childish whine with which he greets my resistance to his affections. Or how he gave up his primary desk so I could have a place for my computer, relegating himself to the cold, damp room in the basement. 

I'd known that beginning a discussion about just how wrong her statement is would be pointless. It would only create the impression that I was defending myself, thus making her more certain that she was, indeed, correct. Because, after all, he is the only breadwinner, and I do sit at home and do the laundry and cook and clean while he's in the office. And that, it would seem, is enough to classify our relationship as "patriarchal". Because he has a professional career and I don't (purely out of choice). The fact that, if something were to happen, I have more than enough of my own money to maintain myself and our child for a long time - certainly until I find a job - is obviously irrelevant. 

Maybe it's because I moved into his flat. Because I followed him to Germany, rather than staying in Poland. Because I chose to uproot myself and create a home in his country rather than force him to move to mine. And as far as that goes, I cannot argue. Guilty as charged. But this was an obvious choice for me, and ties into one of the first things that Paulina had said - one of the first things that had started my dumbfoundedness.

"You cannot let yourself get lost in this pregnancy," she'd said. "You must remember who you are. Don't let being a mother be the only thing, or you will go crazy. Best thing to do is to take a piece of paper, divide it down the middle and, on one side, write down the things you want to achieve as a mother, and, on the other, the things you want to achieve as a non-mother. Then see how much of both sides you can achieve, while maintaning a balance. You must make yourself a priority, not your child. Your child will adapt to whatever you choose. And if your goals aren't compatible with Michał, then end it. Don't sacrifice yourself."

That had been the first moment I'd fought with myself not to stare blankly at her. My goals as a mother? You mean besides the small issue of having and raising a healthy, happy child? Forcing it to adapt to its' mother's ambitions? Forcing it to grown up without a father because Mummy had goals in her sights that had no space in them for her own child's good? Oh dear lord, where do I even begin?

I realised this is a lost cause. She already thinks of me as a victim, probably because she had been my confidante right before and after Michał had left me, and anyone who'd seen the state of me in those months would tell you that was not a pretty picture. She has also transferred onto me her deep fear of sacrificing her own career to have children (that's why she's 33 and married and childless) and created her charming cocktail or psychobabble and blindness to the fact that I am, for all intents and purposes, happy.