A Pregnancy Freelance Writing Diary

In which the energy bunny becomes a somnolent toad.

Dear Readers,

I have a confession to make.

I haven’t been writing two hours a day. In fact, recently I’m lucky to get in two hours a week.

While I still believe in a deep-rooted compatibility between mothering and making art, this pregnancy just ain’t it. I’m happy for Lauryn Hill and her pregnancy-induced creativity (see: “Be Weird. Be a holy (m)other”). Meanwhile, here I am, lying on the couch with one eye open, buried in clothing my toddler has made into “a blanket, mommy, tuck, tuck, tuck.” The energy bunny has become a somnolent toad.

A toad can’t move as fast as a bunny. A toad, in fact, does very little, at least if it’s the kind of toad I am. I have a long list of housekeeping tasks I’ve been creeping through. But list is the wrong word. It’s actually an endless cycle. Not only a cycle, but one that is moving too fast for me to make progress. Not only too fast to make progress but fast enough that I’m actually going backwards, actively spreading dirt and disorganization.

Due to these circumstances, your friendly resident somnolent toad is finding its main spiritual task these days is to accept its temporary weakness and not be a downer.

One thing that’s helped me is to remember pregnancy fatigue is an affliction many women would give their right arm to have.¹ Until recently, I wasn’t particularly aware of the emotional impacts of infertility struggles. Then, I read The Baby Business, an old book (2005) on surrogacy, adoption, and IVF. One anecdote told of a couple who spent a total of $100,000 (more like $150k today) on treatments, undergoing a third-trimester twin loss among other miscarriages, before finally giving up and adopting a Russian orphan. Wow. What is a child worth in dollar terms? To some, a lot.

Some of these women have also popped up in my life. A matron at a wedding with a fourteen year age gap between her second and third children. A friend whose sex life has become burdensome through repeated disappointment. A woman who gritted her teeth through every variety of miscarriage because God had sent her a dream about a golden-haired child.

Hearing about these couples refreshes my gratitude for being pregnant. Even though my body is not cooperating exactly how I would want it to, it is doing a great job making a baby. Praise God!

As for writing—although I haven’t been doing that much, I’m participating in two professional development things this month: a World Journalism Institute webinar on freelancing and a weekend magazine writer’s retreat with Plough. This has, at least, reduced the irrational panic that if I stop writing for a few months, I’m never going to write again.

But for now—I write this lying on the living room couch. And realistically, this is where I will be for a while.

God bless you, God be with you, and may he send you enough humor and humility to tackle whatever you’re dealing with right now.

Yours,

Amelia

P.S. Ironically, the evening after I wrote this, my husband came home and told me to head out to Barnes & Noble for an evening writing sesh where I successfully pounded out some work. I guess it just goes to show that when one is discouraged, it’s spiffing to have a supportive spouse.

1. Granted, if anyone lectured me in the typical, “You know your burden is one many would give their right arm to have!” I would think, “What a jerk!” and not be comforted. But the genuine experiential opening of one’s eyes to other people’s suffering is one of the best ways to quell self-pity.