|Bump photos: Now with more cats.|
By the time one of the women responded with, "Well, when I was pregnant with ..." the other woman's eyes had gone glassy and she was fiddling with her phone. She waited the perfect amount of time and then fell off the conversation and was absorbed by the background. It was the subtle escape of a pro, I recognized it because I do it.
If my embarrassment level was fuel, I could have jet-packed myself to the moon right that second. My first inclination was to chase her down and apologize for the snooze fest. But would that be weirder? Yes, totally. It's been days but I'm still wincing with social shame. I don't want to be that person who turns people's pupils into cartoonish Zzs.
"Here comes Christa. I can't wait to hear where she fell on the Bristol Stool Chart this morning."
"Did you hear her kid only has one kidney?"
"Only like one-bajillion times."
"I heard she doesn't even want to know what a mucus plug is until she has to know."
ON WATCHING 'JUNO'
I watched 'Juno' on Saturday. It was an anthropological study of whether actually being pregnant would change the way I saw the movie. And, actually, I watched it twice.
There is a scene where Juno has gone to St. Cloud to hang with Jason Bateman, who slow dances with her to 80s punk in his guitar room and reveals that he's planning on leaving Alias and moving into a loft apartment in the big city. Juno backs away from him like he's singed her and beats a hasty, awkward retreat from their home muttering something about being allergic to "fine home furnishings."
She hops into her minivan and cruises toward home, eventually stopping on the shoulder of the road to rub her belly and weep.
And I lost my mind. I cried so hard my toes vibrated. Loudly, too. Zoo-like yelps.
"She's crying because she just wanted the baby to have the perfect home she saw represented in the Penny Saver," I told Chuck during the re-watch, by now calmed considerably but not completely. "She just wants her to have a good li-i-i-ife."
TASTE THE RAINBOW
I stopped yesterday at a candy kiosk to trade a quarter for a handful of Skittles. It was a weird whim. I've been avoiding sugar because I think it exacerbates The Migraines. But this rainbow-of-fruit-flavor-in-my-palm blew my mind. The taste was other-worldly and for the time it took to eat them, I was convinced that Skittles had started using actual fruit to make this taste. I positively gurgled with Vitamin C.
"Why don't I always eat Skittles?" I wondered. "Like constantly, non-stop, fruit flavor bursts. Pow! Breakfast lunch and dinner."
I think this is what it's probably like to be on drugs.
"The (Powerful Baby Girl) wants a mint shake from Arby's," Chrissie texted me.
"The (Powerful Baby Girl) knows that sugar exacerbates her migraines," I texted back. I love the word "exacerbates."
"Wait," I added. "My migraines."
"Are we one person or two?" I asked Chuck, trying to explain my confusion. "Is she me, or is she she?"
SHE'S GOT LEGS
Sometimes I wonder how long it's been since I felt the Powerful Baby Girl flap her little flippers in my lower abdomen. Was it at lunch? Was it in the car? Did it last a long time or was it just a subtle "Hey, still here"? And then I worry that I'm taking these little kick shows for granted. That, at some point, she'll be out here and I won't feel them anymore.
And then I already start mourning the loss of that feeling.
Chuck has confessed that he can't stand up without grunting, a behavior he has learned from me. Adorbs.
She's going to slide out with brown hair and a squishy face. That's what I'm picturing. I think she will look dazed. I think we will bring her home from the hospital, look at each other and say: "Now what do we do?"
This is all becoming very real to me.