I slept like horseshit on the eve of my third trimester. This reformed stomach sleeper has had a dickens of a time adjusting to side sleeping. First it feels like my left shoulder is going to cave in, then my right. No comment on my ever-increasing rib-span, see also: Sci/Fi network. When I seek reprieve on my back, I imagine jugs of amniotic fluid and a butternut squash-sized person pancaking my organs.
I hate when the Google searches are right. That I will, in fact, be increasingly uncomfortable on this homestretch. I like to think that I'm an exception. This sort of wonder-being who barely blinks at the 30 pound backpack strapped to my front. Throw me into a pack of pioneer women. I could squat over a hole, squirt out a kid and have the berries picked by noon -- all with a ebullient newborn latched, no handed, on to my teat. This reverie is interrupted by my eternally itchy stomach and my new rule: Yes, stranger, you can touch my belly. But please dip your hand in Cocoa Butter first.
So I bought a body pillow. That is what the internet says to do. It's a complicated candy-cane shaped bit of padding that is supposed to help me sleep better. Secure my belly, provide back support. The preggos in the photographs look serene. Like seahorses floating through Lisa Frank's world. I expect to join this cavalcade when mine arrives in the mail.
The week 28 doctor's appointment was brief: My blood pressure and a little chat about the Glucose Tolerance test that had a happy ending: "You mean I can stop compulsively eating cottage cheese?" Puzzled look. "Just eat healthy."
The doctor pointed out where her head is situated, mid-left quadrant, which has made it fun to guess which body part is making my stomach quake. "So if her head is here, she's 15 inches long, and her feet are here ... that feeling must come from her ... peeing?"
This time when he used the now-familiar descriptor "wild" to describe her, I pretty much rolled my eyes in a "yeah, yeah, yeah" way, but couldn't contain my inner smirk.
Then I wondered: What if I was in a room filled with women who gestated under this doctor. And what if we all went around the room to talk about our experiences. And what if during that sharing circle it was revealed that *all* of the babies were described as "powerful" or "wild"? Would we rise up and take action against him? Or would we all secretly believe that our babies were the most powerful, most wild?
WHO ARE YOU
I was at this thing watching a young ballet dancer and I thought: "Will you be a ballet dancer?" And this was followed by an orchestral combo playing a tango and I thought "Or will you play the cello?" A dozen opera singers took the stage and I thought: "Will you have a big, beautiful voice?" and when the comedians came I thought "Or will you be quick witted and comfortable on stage?"
Meanwhile, young girl in the front row was dancing between her aunt's knees, just bopping along.
To my left was a slightly older girl dressed in a nightgown, stage whispering with her mother, noses millimeters apart.
I imagined the conversation that ended with the willful child refusing to leave home in anything other than her pajamas. That sounded like something our genes would combine to make.
AS SEEN THROUGH THE EYES OF CHUCK
This is what Chuck says I look like:
It's actually Monday and I'm pregnant.