I keep doing this thing where I Google “26 weeks pregnant” and then prowl through images, trying to get an idea of whether or not this gut I have on me is anywhere near reasonable for its age. I mean, I have got months left to go and I feel like a whale. My belly is hard to the touch and it’s hard for me to imagine it getting bigger. Just today I tried to slide into a booth at Chipotle and had to end up going around to the other side of the table when I couldn’t skinny up enough.
Speaking of Chipotle, my god. My appetite today was a beast. I woke up ravenous at 7 a.m., so I helped myself to a bowl — okay two bowls — of Fiber One. Gotta keep the pipes in check, dig? I sat down to write and then decided that was too complicated a plan for 7 a.m., so I went back to bed. When I woke back up at 11, my stomach was eating itself. We went out east for a bit and found ourselves needing something quick and filling, so we stopped by Chipotle, where I had them prepare me one of their huge-ass chicken burritos. Wolfed it down at 1 p.m. and found myself completely famished on the drive to work just before 3. Baby Tapeworm demands more nourishment. A muffin, granola bar, and giant (yet kinda gross thanks to some sour-tasting shredded cheese — thanks, Schnucks salad bar) salad later, I was contemplating what I would be shoving into my face hole when I got home. (A peanut butter sandwich, for the record.)
So this week we passed a couple of pretty important milestones. Ray finally really felt the baby kick a bit, I think, although there’s still enough padding that the kicks feel pretty substantial to me but don’t quite feel like much from the outside most of the time. Occasionally, though, he’ll wallop me and my belly will dance. This bodes well for Ray’s dream of having a son who’s a prize fighter.
I also am now less than 100 days away from my due date.
Early this week I washed my first batch of baby clothes. They’re some pretty swell pieces handed down to me by Amanda, who got them from a friend of hers. Many of them are right up my alley in terms of colors and prints.
It’s been odd, the whole baby-clothes thing. I am not one of those women who just has to swing by the baby section of Target, just to seeeee! I hadn’t really picked out any clothing on my own, figuring I’d be more than happy with whatever anyone wanted to hand down to me. But once I washed these clothes and started folding them and hanging pieces up, I kind of got it. I started picturing what it was going to be like struggling to get little limbs into those little sleeves and pant legs, and how certain outfits would would react to explosive poops. I tried to imagine my little man sitting there in the world’s tiniest whale-themed hoodie and got pretty misty-eyed at the thought. I think there must be something in Dreft that triggers weepy sentimentalism.
So, the babe this week is the size of a hothouse cucumber. Whatever the hell that is. It sounds horrible. He supposedly weighs around a pound and two-thirds, and everything below my belly button can tell and is protesting mightily.
I think I’m swelling a smidge; my rings don’t fit comfortably, although so far I don’t think my ankles or feet have ballooned any. I blame the ridiculous, record-breaking heat and not my sweet tooth.
Next week we start childbirth classes with Sarah Stockwell. I’ve heard such great things about her that I’m pretty excited, even if I’m a little skittish about being in a classroom setting and having to mingle and do all that school-y stuff. I told Ray I was planning on being a suckup since I had already read several of the books on the recommended list, and he said something pretty vulgar in response, so I’m betting our classroom dynamic is going to be fantastic.
Aside from feeling huge and tired and producing equine amounts of urine, I am feeling mostly okay. My moods are sort of swingy, and I have bouts with anxiety and this odd sense of isolation and loneliness that I figure (hope?) every expecting mother experiences. It’s interesting: I have spent my entire adult life working hard to be independent and take care of myself. I never wanted to have to rely on anyone else, or ask for anything from anyone. Yet here I am coming up on an event that is making me want to be taken care of and doted on for a little while, and it’s scary and uncomfortable when I feel like I am not getting what I need in that regard. Sometimes I just need to be loved on but overt affection isn’t really my partner’s style. I felt bad about writing anything about this until just now when I got home from work and went into the bedroom to hug on the boyfriend and tell him thanks for mowing the yard, and he was super bitchy that I woke him up and made a noise that would be phonetically spelled “nnnyyyeeeeeeuuuuh!” when I touched him, and then shook his head. Which made me cry. So, you know. Fellas, try extra hard to be nice and loving to your pregnant significant others. Because it’s hard enough feeling like a huge disgusting unwieldy needy weepy insane stressed-out broke overworked crazy person without having to feel rejected by the person who needs to have your back.
And on that note, I’m gonna go watch cartoons and continue my emotional regression!
I just had a conversation with a pregnant friend about how all those hormones and the lack of patience is nature’s way of teaching you to ask for help. We’re a generation of women taught to be independent and self-sufficient and Maude-forbid we *need* a male partner to provide anything but equitable effort in a relationship, but all those rules don’t apply to having a baby. We can’t do it alone. No one can do it alone. We’re not supposed to. As a society, we’ve lost the innate knowledge of what new mothers need, so perhaps the most important thing on our pre-baby to-do lists is to start asking for it.
My boyfriend knows a guy who owns lots of baseball bats.
Just say the word.
My co-worker just forwarded me this post in an email and I love love loved it! I’m 18 weeks and expecting my first born and I can totally relate to 85% of everything you just wrote. Thanks for sharing and I will be subscribing!