I remember the bathroom smell. But only that I didn’t like it.
I remember pulling over on route 3 to puke in a zip lock bag. But now it feels like a funny childhood story.
I remember the practice contractions that I started getting towards the end. But I don’t exactly recall how they felt.
I remember hating mornings and the feeling of getting dressed. But I can’t really remember why. Something about the heater and getting chill bumps that made me want to puke.
I remember hating coffee. But why? What exactly did it taste like?
Pregnancy has no muscle memory. I can taste, feel, see other memories. But memories of pregnancy? I can’t feel them with my senses. I just know they were true because I lamented a hundred times over how much I hated it and that I just wanted to feel normal again. I wanted to drink coffee, enjoy mornings, sleep on my back.
Now I can do all of those things but it’s like I forgot why I wanted to do them.
Pregnancy slips farther away with each day that you get bigger. Life without you, seems incomprehensible. I don’t miss the physical rigors of pregnancy, or even the circumstances around it. But I miss somehow knowing everything and nothing about you.
I don’t miss the nausea and aches and distortion of my senses. But you are like a story I can only read for the first time, once. Pregnancy was just the first chapter. And now I know, I can never re-read it again. Maybe that’s what I miss.
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