Holy stomach earthquake Batman. Peanut must be practicing her moshing. My stomach is bubbling and rolling like a witch’s cauldron. It is at times like these when I get the occasional clairvoyent moment about what it really is that is in there and what it is really going to be like to have it on the outside in less than three months.
Peanut pokes an elbow (or is it a knee? or a foot? or a forehead?) out a few inches above my belly button. I poke her back. She pokes again, but this time holds the position, temporarily giving my stomach a little chin. I poke back again, and this time she responds with a few low kicks. Does she wonder where the poking is coming from? Is this the first in a long list of things I do that will annoy her throughout her life? (I can already hear her saying “Maoo-oom” in that “you are so ridiculous lady” voice that kids specialize in.) Or is she playing along?
Last week I held a friend’s baby for a while so she could eat lunch in peace. The baby cried a lot, and then threw up on my arm. A preview of things to come. Four-month-old babies are heavy, and all this “I’m pregnant and can’t lift anything” is making me weak. Is there any muscle left in my arms? Certainly doesn’t feel like it. Sheesh. Maybe I should start training with hand weights now. Good thing they are irresistable. The babies that is, not the hand weights.
I spend most of my days intensely conscious of how much will change in a few months and enjoying every second that I spend on a spontaneous outing or alone with the Beard or just quietly reading a book all the more with the knowledge that very soon none of those things are going to be possible without planning. I want to document everything so that I remember how it all felt when I’m not pregnant anymore and all of this starts to seem like some sort of hazy dream.
Blogger mamas are always talking about how grooming routines fall to the wayside when you have a baby. There’s no time to shower or brush your hair or put on make up, they report, sadly. Every time I read another one of their “and you won’t shower for WEEKS” horror stories, I think, hey, at least I’m ahead of the curve on that one. I only shower every two weeks or so anyway, and it shouldn’t be a problem to find someone to hold the baby for a half hour that irregularly. I also don’t wear make up, and I haven’t brushed my hair in at least two years. (This, contrary to popular belief, doesn’t even result in nest head. Though I do have a few volunteer dreads in the back.) I wonder how, if Peanut turns out to be one of those kids who hates having her hair brushed, this is going to work against me later. Another bridge to cross when we come to it.
This seems to be the awesome part of the pregnancy—the title “27 weeks” refers to the week I took that picture, though this week marks 29—the part where I feel pretty good. I wouldn’t go so far as to say “best I’ve ever felt in my life” as walking a lot hurts, my legs and back ache occasionally from all the extra weight, and I get really intense heart burn when I eat the wrong things (goodbye raw onions, sniff sniff, miss you). But in comparison with the three-plus-month stretch of puking, full-body poison ivy would feel alright. And now I’m round enough that people on the bus give me their seats sometimes. People are really nice to you when you’re pregnant. Though the downside is that you really, really need them to be nice to you because otherwise you’d be fucked. Less than three months to go, and I’m already looking forward to being able to lay on my stomach and walk like I’m not half-crippled again. But until then I’ll enjoy the cauldron stomach and the kindness and hope I actually manage to get a number of writing projects finished before February.