Thankfully, the happenings of Friday seemed to have been a false alarm. However, during the three or so hours we spent waiting for the midwife to arrive, I blamed myself repeatedly.
“It’s my fault,” I heard myself saying, “I stayed too late at work on Wednesday and haven’t slept enough this week.”
“It’s my fault,” I said again later, “I told people that everything was going well with the pregnancy so far.”
“It’s my fault,” I thought to myself, “I used arnica cream on my massive leg bruise.” (FYI, the midwife said it’s perfectly fine to use arnica cream when pregnant; don’t go throwing yours out!)
It’s my fault, I must have lifted something too heavy or overdid it at yoga days ago or…the list goes on. Hub was great and told me it wasn’t my fault and I just needed to try to rest while we waited.
But it’s interesting that my first instinct was that I must have done something wrong to cause it. Rationally, I know I hadn’t. I don’t take drugs, or smoke, I haven’t drunk alcohol since finding out I’m pregnant and I eat healthily. I take my pregnancy vitamins. Heck, I’d even stopped eating all the things you’re not supposed to eat when you’re pregnant before we’d even conceived, ‘just in case’.
Even still, there still seems to be this idea that women are somehow responsible for how their bodies carry babies. Every time we have a scan or midwife appointment and all is well, my father in law says ‘well done’ as though I should be congratulated for something. In truth, other than doing all the healthy things I’ve done in the previous paragraph, I have no control over what my body does with this pregnancy. And it’s scary.