Everyone wants me to love being pregnant. If I don't cherish every moment, they think I am missing out on the biggest experience of my life.

I don't dislike it; I'm just not in love with it. I have always been self-conscious about my looks, and now I have to face a body growing in all the wrong places.

The changes are so gradual, though, that they are not as scary as I expected. I may notice a new curve each week, but I actually don't mind. I know that every new discovery is worth it.

I have no waist anymore, but I can feel the babies moving. I can't see anything below my waist, but my babies continue to thrive. I lose my breath walking up a few stairs, but all in the name of a healthy pregnancy. So far so good, that is, until the hideous stretch marks get me.

It's not even just the physical aspects that make carrying a child -- children, in my case -- a less-than-ideal situation. I struggle to go a few days without stressing out that something could be wrong.

I hear so many horror stories about twins not surviving, about women who are stuck on hospital bedrest for months, about premature twins who spend weeks in the NICU. One mother of twins told me not to order nursery furniture until after I make it to 24 weeks, when the twins will be considered viable.

I hesitate to let the fear mongers get the best of me, but my concerns are real.

I imagine I'd be stressed if I were having just one baby, simply because pregnancy is new for me. It's natural, but it's not something I'm used to doing. I can read every book, but I will still wonder if I'm eating enough, if I'm lying on my left side enough, if I should have skipped that last load of laundry.

Despite the physical augmentations and constant worries, what I love about being pregnant is that it means I am having children. I daydream about the kids and what their lives will be like. But it's hard to express that when someone is rubbing my belly without an invitation or asking how much weight I've gained.

I thought I'd be more gung ho about pregnancy after my morning sickness subsided. At 20-plus weeks, it was gone, yet I didn't suddenly start glowing.

When my mother-in-law heard that my daily gagging was gone, she got giddy at the thought of me going gaga.

"Hopefully, you'll start loving being pregnant," she told me, probably remembering her days of being the happiest pregnant woman around. I understand that she, like many other people, loved being pregnant. She doesn't want women like me to miss out on any it.

But am I really missing out? Why do I need to adore this state of being? Why can't I just do it? This is my pregnancy, after all.

I have a hard time letting others into my pregnancy. I feel like everyone wants a piece of the waddling woman.

The stories about their experiences, their neighbors' experiences and everything baby put me on the defense. I know that they are just excited for me and want to share in this wonderful phenomenon, but I hate feeling like a science project that requires constant monitoring. I feel as if I'm disappointing everyone by not being huge yet, not talking about babies all the time and not walking around like I'm in heaven.

I have moments when it hits me suddenly that these two babies will be here soon, and I cannot help but tear up. I am overwhelmed with love and joy, and yet it doesn't quite show to the masses.

As much as people annoy me -- could hormones have something to do with it? -- I realize that I only have a handful of months to get used to being in a family way before it's a thing of memories. Perhaps that's why so many women want me to relish in the extra inches and sleepless nights; they know it's going to end in a blink of a bleary new mom's eye.

I have considered keeping track of my pregnancy in a journal, recording the milestones that may mean more to me down the road. Tossing vanity aside, I have taken regular belly shots in hopes that months after the babies are born I'll be shocked that I could ever have been that big.

I may not love being pregnant the way other women have, and they may not love it the way I do. And I'm fine with that.

Each pregnancy is like the woman who endures and enjoys it -- special.

Laura Lewis Brown is an adventurous newlywed who has loved, lost and doesn't mind sharing. Her column appears every other Thursday.