I am nearly at a loss for words. (I did say “nearly.” Or else, well, that would be a first, wouldn’t it). The kindness, the good wishes, the positive vibes, the concerned emails, the tentatively offered prayer–each and every one is joyfully and humbly accepted.
You rock, blog people, really you do.
So much so that I fear I’ve used up all my blogworld good will for the next eight years or so. Or maybe that’s a good thing? Yes! That’s exactly how I will take it. I have used up all my blogworld good will, and thus, nothing bad can happen to me ever again. Take that, nefarious forces of the universe. Hah. I win and you suck.
I feel this would be a good time to share with you some very positive things about this pregnancy. After all, I don’t want to be that whiney pregnant chick who’s always like, wah my feet. Wah my back. Wah my wiggly tricep fat. At leat I don’t want to be that person here–since I spend more than enough time being her at home, thankyouverymuch.
For one, the bionic nose? Not so bad. Certainly its scifi-esque powers kick in during the occasional diaper change or wind direction change that carries with it unusual aromas from the Greek diner up the street; but otherwise I feel somehow, mercifully, thankfully spared from many of the gag-inducing smells of the last pregnancy. Perhaps it’s that I’ve stayed away from cooked green peppers and tuna melts. (Oh God – gagging just typing those last two words.) Or maybe it’s just that having a toddler on hand gives you those permasniffles that somehow counterbalances the bionic sense of smell and renders your olfactory system somehow normal. Either way, I’m just fine not being able to detect a White Diamonds violation from across a crowded restaurant or a bike messenger who feels that bathing is somehow against his god.
Also, at this, the 14 week mark, the affliction known as Gross Pendulousness of the Boobs (Mamarium Distortium) just kicked in. Considering I was sleeping in a Bravado at 6 weeks last time–you should have seen the look on the saleswoman’s face when I casually mentioned my due date 8 months later–I’m delighted. Of course, now the things are swollen and tender and easily heavy enough to snap right off my body should I bend forward too quickly or hit a pothole on the FDR, but that’s to be expected. I’m just happy it took this long to get to this stage.
(And really, my small-boobied sisters, do not covet thy neighbors overinflated pregnancy boobs. The DD garments I own were taxed to their limits before I got knocked up. I’m avoiding getting resized now for fear of letters so high they have yet to be added to our alphabet. It’s not attractive, I assure you.)
Last and most definitely not least, I must do a little happy dance that I’m not heaping on the poundage nearly as fast as last time around. I know part of it was due to my mandated physical inactivity. But if I am to be honest, my 45 pound weight gain was thanks in large part to the Frosted Flakes Factor. The Pop Tart Factor. The Chocolate Chip Scone Factor.
“I’m craaaaving it,” I’d say, interpreting my desire was a sign that my body somehow “needed it.” Right. .
And so our pantries were filled with the cereals your mom never let you have, our counters overflowed with croissants and shortbread and all manners of flavored popcorn. There were telltale toaster cake crumbs at the bottom of the toaster, and a plentiful supply of ice cream in the freezer. Bad ice cream, too. Like, Chipwiches and Good Humor Chocolate Eclairs. The stains on my maternity shirts—the ones I wore way to early I might add—were definitely not from salad dressings. Except maybe blue cheese, which generously doused the French fries I ate nearly daily, accompanying my grilled cheese sandwiches and black and white milkshakes.
This time? Things are different. In fact just last week–I swear it’s true, I have witnesses–I managed to eat a vegetable.
[pauses for applause.]
So the fact that I’m up five pounds today instead of sixteen gives me a forbidden, totally un-pc, feminist-betraying joy.
Not that I look good, mind you. You can see the pregnancy in my face before you see it on my hips, and that’s saying something.
I’ll never be one of those skinny little things with the chiseled arms and the cute bumps that you don’t even notice until the day before the elective C-section. Being The Cute Preggo just isn’t the cards for me. However I’ll happily settle for being able to stand up from the couch at 14 weeks without leaving two humongous impressions in the fabric. In fact, I’m happy I can stand up from the couch at all without the help of two burly union guys.
So the way I see things, they could be worse. They have been worse. They could get worse–who knows. And now with the awareness of what real pregnancy stress can be, I’m not going to get crazy about forgetting a vitamin (or six) or the big zit right next to my nose or even a chocolate croissant binge.
I reserve the right to go whiney at any time.