I’m pregnant with my second baby, and everyone kept warning me the second time around would feel different. My mom said it in that knowing tone mothers use when they’re waiting for you to admit they were right.
“You’ll be more emotional,” she predicted with absolute certainty.
I rolled my eyes at her dramatic prediction.
Turns out, she wasn’t completely wrong. But the storm of emotions didn’t come from pregnancy hormones or my unborn child.
It came from discovering my husband’s double life.
Just Wanting to Hide
During this pregnancy, I wanted nothing more than to disappear into the couch with greasy takeout. Whatever snack the baby demanded that hour was all I cared about.
Hiding felt easier and safer than being social. But Ava, my best friend and self-appointed pregnancy cheerleader, wasn’t having any of it.
“I found this adorable pottery studio,” she announced one afternoon while blending me a strawberry smoothie. She was also lecturing me about self-care as usual.
My swollen feet were propped up on her coffee table, aching from another long day.
“They do these little pottery parties. You sign up, paint something cute, and just hang out with other women.”
“We paint pots?” I asked flatly, mentally listing a hundred other things I’d rather do with my limited energy.
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