Let’s talk about how awesome pregnancy is, wanna?
Well. That was fun. Good talk, everybody!
Okay, it’s not all dire like that. In the grand scheme of things, anyway. But man. Man oh man oh man. Do I hate being pregnant. (Love LOVE love babies; just hate getting there.)
I’m just in that weird phase between Two-Blue-Lines-Joyful and Obviously-Carrying. Which basically means – as I enter my second trimester – I still have people coming up to me and saying, “Wait.. I just heard you’re pregnant?!” And all I can think is Oh, God – you’ve always thought I was THIS fat? The answer appears to be a resounding YES, and I also have people asking when I’m going to start showing. I thank them for their kindness, but mention that I’m clearly a whale. They always argue that No, I don’t see anything there.
Oh, okay. Guess this giant beer gut is hiding the kid.
Truth be told, I’m fine with putting on weight for the baby, but MAN, it flies in the face of every fat-girl-mentality I’ve tortured myself with for the past five years. And just before I got all knocked up, I had lost a good twelve pounds. I was starting to be proud of my body again. AND NOW I AM A WHALE.
People randomly stroke my belly. At first, I would kindly smile at them and pretend it wasn’t awkward, but now I kind of delight in saying calmly, “You enjoying feeling my chub there? No baby shield happening yet; you’re just groping my fat rolls. But what soft hands you have!” (For what it’s worth, I don’t mind people feeling the baby when I progress to the point that the baby shield is 95% up my stomach. But until then, STOP FEELING MY FAT, Y’ALL.)
We’re finding out the gender soon, and maybe that will spark some interest from me. Right now, I only feel pride or excitement when I hear the heartbeat; every other moment of every single day, I will forget I’m pregnant entirely. I will still crave my early Saturday morning runs, then be saddened I can’t go. I will still peruse the drink section at a restaurant, then resign myself to an unsweet tea instead. (I made the mistake of ordering a virgin daquiri the other day, and MY LORD, what a sad little drink.) I will longingly stare into the windows of a Talbots or a Coldwater Creek before remembering that Oh yeah – too fat now and just going to get fatter.
But maybe knowing a gender will help. Bryan has picked out a girl name and I’ve picked out a boy name, and the middle names are up for grabs. (We are okay with that, mostly because we had agreed on the names ahead of time.) I, obviously, am betting on a boy – the data historically is stacked against a girl, right? – but Bryan seems convinced that it’s a girl. (Or he just knows I enjoy competition.)(And also: I enjoy being RIGHT.) It was fun perusing the Most Unusual Names of 2012 and wondering if we should pick middle names from there. (Mowgli? Espn? Jagger? THE CHOICES, THEY ARE ENDLESS.)
Admittedly, there was a random night some weeks back where I felt flutters as we were falling asleep. That was pretty cool.
But then things like Newtown happen, and I coax Baby Ares to stay in there as long as he sees fit. Because on Friday, I wanted to stay in a fetal position in somewhere dark and warm, too. How do I bring a child into a world like this?
(The answer is: you bring the child in, and you raise him/her well. If everyone did that, maybe – just maybe, as I don’t know the whole story of the shooter’s life, nor do I need to – maybe things like this would happen less often, if not stop altogether.)
Random aside: we watch a lot of America’s Funniest Home Videos in our house – it’s a whole-family affair – and I figure that, if nothing else, at least I’m a better parent than the 50% of Americans who submit videos to this show. What kind of asshole keeps taping as their child half-drowns in a pool or gets continually rammed by a goat? So I’ve got going that for me, even if I am carrying a beer gut baby.