I may be wrong–and if so, I invite my parents, who read this blog, to take the liberty of correcting me–but I wasn’t a typical teenager.
I didn’t spend hours primping or preening or worrying about my appearance. I didn’t argue (well, with a couple exceptions) or break rules or do drugs or get drunk or… I skipped over just about all of the things that many screwed up things normal American teenagers do. I don’t think I was moody. Pensive, yes (still am), but not moody. I didn’t obsess about pimples.
But there’s something about pregnancy that makes me feel more vulnerable than I ever did as a teenager. I’m regressing. I cry frequently and prolifically. Last night, I watched the news and cried about homeless kids, soldiers missing their arms or legs or minds, and nuclear plant workers with incurable diseases. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and noticed: more pimples.
Pregnancy is, maybe, the ultimate form of vulnerability. I’d explore that more, write more about it, but I’d probably start crying. I think I’ll go check on my pimples instead.