Oct
4
October 4, 2007
My belly is, perhaps not surprisingly, growing. It now protrudes from the front of my body in what is starting to seem like a comical manner, and I feel like I should have a little red warning flag taped to my navel. At 21 weeks I don’t yet feel lumberingly huge, but things are definitely different. For instance, taking large deep breaths? Not really an easy option any more, unless I’m doing so in order to swallow the maximum amount of Haagen-Dazs Mint Chip ice cream.
Certain outfits highlight the belly much more than others, I’ve noticed. Remember when Katie Holmes was knocked up and there were all those rumors in the tabloids about how she was faking it with a stunt belly because Tom Cruise is a gay robot, and their proof was in the photos that showed her looking extremely pregnant one day, not so much the next? Or maybe you remember no such thing because you don’t read trashy celeb-whore magazines, FINE, but anyway, now I know exactly what was going on there, it was her clothes. I have a t-shirt that completely hides the belly altogether, and I also have a dress that makes me look like I’m about to give birth; it’s all about the maternity wear and whether it conceals or reveals. Plus, there’s the Gassy Factor. I’m just saying, a meal involving beans can totally contribute to the overall girth/circumference issue.
Pregnant bodies are completely crazy-looking. On one hand, I find them beautiful and amazing and downright glorious, on the other, my GOD. I sometimes just stare at myself in the mirror at night, marveling over the weirdness of having one body part that appears to be suffering from an extreme case of elephantiasis. It seems like I’m carrying higher this time, because my belly starts curving outward starting from the middle of my ribs, and basically without a lot of structured foundation garments in place that means my boobs just lie on top of my stomach like . . . well, like fleshy hors d’oeuvres on a bulbous pink serving platter. I know, I know, could I be any more sexy and appealing? Maybe if I talk about gas some more.
You’d think these body changes would be familiar to me, but I’m startled all over again by the transformation. It’s like feeling the baby move, I think I could be pregnant a thousand more times (well, not literally) and never get used to how bizarre it feels to have something kicking me from the INSIDE. I never sit back and think tender thoughts about the baby moving around inside my body, I always think of that scene in Alien.
Oct
3
October 3, 2007
Here are some things I’d like to be cooking in my new kitchen right now: molasses cookies, Swistle’s Chocolate Mint Brownies, creamy butternut squash soup, chicken noodle soup, apple pie, cranberry-sausage stuffing. It’s fall, dammit, and the colder weather and scarlet-tipped leaves demand that a certain amount of comfort food be produced on a daily—if not hourly—basis.
Too bad the contractors still need to do the flooring, finish painting, install all the appliances and lighting, and oh, I don’t know, GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR HOUSE.
Not that I’m growing impatient or anything.
It’s just that nothing short of a catastrophic natural disaster should be the blocker on a critical path between a pregnant woman and a freshly baked pan of brownies, you know? Also, I’m veering dangerously into nesting territory, and not only can I not cook food (and provide sustenance for my family! Um, in the form of baked goods I shovel into my own mouth), I can’t set up Riley’s new bedroom or move him into his (gulp) big-kid’s bed or do any preparations for this baby that’s apparently going to show up in a few months, regardless of whether we’re still living in plaster dust or not.
In happier news, our Tofino vacation is next week. I feel like I’ve been looking forward to it for so long, and now it’s finally almost here. I hadn’t quite realized what a long trip it will be to get there (we have a few travel choices to consider: take a ferry to Victoria [from Port Angeles or Anacortes] and drive from there, or drive from Seattle to Vancouver, take a ferry to Nanaimo, and continue driving—either option will be around 8-9 hours long), but who cares, we’re leaving the kid at home with the grandparents! Driving without a toddler sounds like an exotic and lovely experience, really. You mean I can look out the window instead of craning my neck around in order to hand various items to a loud and demanding 3-ft-tall dictator? I can eat a snack without sharing with someone who takes a bite and spits it back out, saying “NO LIKE IT”? I can close my eyes for five seconds without a small boy yelling “WAKE UP MOMMY! WAKE UUUUUP”? Bliss.
Our choice of Tofino is thanks to a suggestion from my smart and lovely friend, who also happens to be one of my all-time favorite web writers, who also happens to be up and running again after a long blogging haitus. You should bookmark her site right now, because she is wonderful.
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