I have always made it a habit to not say anything to any woman who is pregnant about being pregnant. Even if I knew her due date, I would never say, “Oh, you look like you’re going to pop,” or other unnecessary comments indicative of her weight.
Apparently, no one else feels that way. One minute I have someone dropping their jaw in horror that I have not gained enough weight to be eight months pregnant and the next I’ve got someone telling me I can go any day.
I even get worried looks from the know-it-all nurse that weighs me every four weeks. Last visit, she told me I could keep my heavy boots on when I stepped on the scale. She said it wouldn’t make a difference. Literally 25 seconds later she looked at me and said, “You better take the boots off. It seems like a lot of weight.” I felt it was my prerogative to glare at her and stop speaking for the remainder of my embarrassing weight check.
I guess I can’t really complain that no one is acknowledging my pregnancy—still asking if I’d like to try a glass of complimentary wine when I’m out to dinner or looking at me like a crazy person when I reiterate three times at Dunkin that I want decaf—and then complain when they’re asking if I’m having twins. But I do, and will for the next six or seven weeks.
Though, I do sometimes feel like giving a snarky reply and insisting that I’m not actually pregnant at all. That will keep them thinking all afternoon.
It’s no surprise really, all of this weight nonsense. I am in the homestretch, as a lot of pregnancy books like to tell me.
I can’t help but feel one of two things: This weight gaining-hormonal rollercoaster that’s left me thinking: “This is not my body. This cannot be my body,” will actually be over and this baby actually has to come out of me,
or, this baby is not going to come out. He is going to live inside me forever.
Right now, I can’t decide what I’d like better. It probably is easier to just leave him in there for as long as possible, because, from what I’ve heard, it’s much easier to raise a baby inside of my uterus rather than outside of it.
I’ll have to update you if indeed I decide to keep the baby inside, if for nothing else my over-powering desperate fear of labor. Like I have a choice.
So I wait. All the while realizing that I’ve given up my air, food, sleep, sex and ability to walk and sit normally.
Each morning, if I so happen to roll over onto my left side, you know, the recommended sleeping position for
all people pregnant, I am rudely woken up by bicycle kicks in my rib cage.
If I so much as try to eat anything that is not a piece of chocolate, a clementine or a corn muffin I usually gag.
Yes I choose to take the elevator at this point, so you health nuts and teenage on-lookers can just keep looking at the waddling 21 year old.
And I won’t even go into the sex portion of my rant. Use your imagination. Or don’t.
It’s a never-ending laundry list really. It’s like the ultimate Lenten sacrifice. Except instead of 40 days, it has lasted 233 days.
It’s amazing how you give up everything for this one little person that you’ve never met. And I’m assuming your willingness can only grow after you’ve held him.
I always thought that I gave up part of me and a part of my life while I dated someone. And I’ve dated for a large portion of my eligible career. Well, it was absolutely nothing.
I’ve become a human pin cushion, quit smoking, and entered Babies R’ Us, which really felt like an out of body experience for the first and second times.
I drank that pure orange sugar drink twice without throwing up. I’ve given gallons of blood. And I’ve bravely entered into the world of maternity clothes.
I’d take all of this over dating.
Looking back over the past 34 weeks of my life, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed with happiness. No, not that it will soon be over, or really just beginning, but because I have been given with a truly beautiful gift.