My stomach enters a room before I do, and I am considering backing through doorways just to change up the inevitable “How are you feeling?” and outstretched hands to rub the wonderment. Mind you, backing into a room might make people mistake my heiny and rub that, or offer up more candid remarks such as “Are you ok?” or “Are you sane?”.
Not sure yet, let me get back to you in eight to ten more weeks.
My round beach ball belly has a mind of its own. It shakes and it twitches. Well, of course it does, since inside of it is a little tiny being, intent on kicking me in the kidneys every five minutes. If not my kidneys, then that tiny being is using my bladder as a trampoline. I think I could waddle to the bathroom at work with my eyes closed. Just yesterday, said tiny being did some breakdancing, and since I was bellied up to a meeting table, it shook everyone’s coffee.
No its not an earthquake, my baby is bored, can we wrap this up? I have to pee.
It is snowing outside, and I want chocolate. I can’t have chocolate, but I desperately want it, or some fascimile of it. The closest place to get said chocolate is a block and a half walk. I’m looking at the swirling snow, and wondering if my need for some sort of snack will outweigh the despised struggle to get my boots on (while not losing conciousness) and waddle down the street in the snow and cold, determined in my slow crawl to snackdom.
Do you think the walk in the snow would negate the sugar impact of the chocolate? Didn’t think so…
My son, who has not had the official “You are getting a sister!” talk (scheduled for next week), is catching on that something is happening. He saw my belly do some undulating the other day. He looked at me, wide eyed, slowly backing up saying “Mommy’s belly MOVE!” then pointing and saying “I saw it! Mommy belly move!” I let him put his ear up to my belly, and he listened as intently as he does his Rice Krispies in the morning. “I hear it Mommy! I hear gurgly!” Now, whenever I am mimicking a beached whale on the couch with my feet up, he comes over, intently watching my stomach. Then he pats it, and steps back, waiting. “Mommy’s belly move again? Like dat?”
I am a walking toddler entertainment unit, it seems.
I looked at pictures of pregnant women on a clothing website the other day. not a good idea when feeling fat and cumbersome, let me tell you. They were all, of course, skinny and tall, wearing three inch heels (how???) and walking tiny teacup dogs. They were wearing fashionable jeans, sweater sets, and jaunty hats. The jeans were those maternity pants that don’t look like maternity pants, and give the impression that these women can still wear their regular jeans because they are perfect in every way, just with a “bump” that is placed so perfectly, their waist is still a waist.
I may have to wear mumu’s soon, none of my maternity pants fit anymore. Do you think they have fur-lined ones for winter? I can picture it now, me wading through snowdrifts in a leopard print mumu topped by a bright blue Snuggie, toque, solid toe Crocs and rainbow leg warmers. ‘Cuz, you know, I’m hip like that.
I have discovered that the ege of my footrest is great for scratching the top of my feet so I do not have to attempt lung-deflating yoga to reach them with hands. A co-worker came by as I was blissfully scratching the top of my left foot, listing to one side in the sheer enjoyment, staring into space. I was, strangely, not embarrassed, but enthusiastically told him of my discovery, and the merits of it.
I have lost my ever-lovin’ mind.