I’ve reached the halfway mark. Twenty weeks. Notable things in my life include:
1) Whenever I feel flutters of movement I am compelled to stick my hand down my pants to get a little closer to skin. The baby is still mostly below my belly button. It doesn’t really matter where I am, who I’m with or what we’re doing. All public spaces are now subject to my sexy Al Bundy moves.
2) Most spoken line = “No, we are not going to find out the gender.” (Until July, that is.)
3) Second most spoken line = “I feel fat.” (Followed closely by, “I’m hungry.”)
4) I’ve added aqua jogging and pre-natal yoga to my run, spin, repeat exercise routine and both are rather strange in their own unconventional ways. “Running” suspended in water with an adult floatie around your bulbous belly and “oooohhhmmming” out loud to the baby are two things you just don’t want other people to see you doing. (Odd that I’m totally fine with other people seeing my hand down my pants, however.)
5) My bladder does not like the baby. I mean really. Would you if something squirmy, alien-like and covered in weird fuzzy stuff was sitting on you?!?
6) A fondness for the fact the baby is always equated to a type food to communicate size to me. Goes appropriately with #3’s nagging hunger me thinks. Blueberry, kidney bean, fig, lemon, avocado, can of soda (that was more for a weight comparison actually). And this week… drum roll… the baby is the length of a banana. Hot damn I’m ready for dessert!
7) I sometimes need to consult “The Book of Fear” to find out what-the-hell is going on. Titled in bookstores everywhere as, “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”
Speaking of twenty weeks. I always found it annoying that pregnatarians counted in weeks when the rest of the upright world understands that cooking a baby takes nine months. Weeks mean nada. Alas, I have become one of those women. I have no idea how many months pregnant I am. But I can tell you right now, today, I am 20 weeks and one day prego. Everyone asks, “How far along are you?” And naturally I answer in my terms because it’s all about me.
Some folks are polite and say, “Cool” and move on. Others lose all focus behind their eyes and stare off with a look that either says, “I have no idea what that means” or “Quick math. Quick math. Quick math. OH! Xxx months.”
Still others will flat out ask for a translation, “Soooo, how many months is that?”
I dunno, ask Hugh Grant.