Friday, May 24, 2013

It's Friday and I'm Pregnant: Week 32 ...

Here I am overpowering Greener. 

I've developed a new appreciation for elderly women. The more elderly, the better. I hopped into an elevator at the clinic yesterday and a woman in her 80s followed me in. I was in the position to man the button pushing, so I looked at her expectantly.

"Floor three," she said.
"Me too!" I said.
"I'm going for a different reason than you," she said, smiling.

There is a no nonsense-ness to elderly women. They don't treat the preggo like she's an adorable mouse  in a sombrero driving a Barbie car. There is no petting, fawning. Women who aren't elderly are cheerful, optimistic. They pass along war stories, smile and hold doors. The elderly woman has been there, done this, in a time before hand sanitizer and ever-changing standards for car seats and cribs and when a belly was a good place to balance an ashtray. They must secretly think we're all a bunch of pussies.

When we were at Ikea I asked a woman where she got her cart and she said we could have her's. She shoved a heavy box aside while I stood idly watching, feeling like an asshole for not helping out. "Oh!" She said, looking up at me. "I didn't even notice your delicate condition." Delicate. Condition. Eeps.

"I did it, too," the woman in the elevator said. "Five times."
"Five times," I said. "Whoa."

Still, when the elevator opened I pushed out in front of her so I could check in for my appointment before her. Hip checking old ladies is another perk of being a precious mouse in a Barbie car.


This is a little alarming and I'm not sure where it's coming from. On Tuesday before we left for a two-plus hour drive to Ikea, I said to Chuck: "You should probably eat some of that leftover pizza before we go."

This wasn't a big deal. We'd be in the car for a while. Long car rides suck enough without hunger pangs. He's aged beyond his White Castle years. It was just a suggestion.

But then on Wednesday morning I'd made us both toast and I had just transitioned into buttering them when he said he was going to take out the garbage.

"Do you want to eat your toast first?"

And he did want to eat his toast first, but something in my voice sounded eat-your-peas-y. Awkward.


Me: "Oh. I just realized I'm not actually seven months pregnant anymore. I'm eight months pregnant."
Chuck: [Panic face]


Chuck is painting the PBG's room as we speak. We went on a mad dash edition of something akin to Supermarket Sweep on Wednesday and now our living room is filled with boxes holding a crib, a changing table, lamps, a rug, a mattress and more. The bulk of this took less than an hour. It seems that we are going for a sort of PeeWee's Playhouse aesthetic. I keep picturing the classy and subtle photos of nurseries I've scrolled past while looking for inspiration and wondering if our design is going to give her ADD or inspire her to invent brain internet.


A resident took over the first part of my appointment on Thursday. When it came time for the old belly check, I asked if she could give me the baby's general layout. She pushed and prodded and admitted this isn't yet her forte. She couldn't tell the PBG's head from her little butt.

This is like a gift.

"Yeah, well. Before you were born, the doctor couldn't tell your head from your ass!"

(Insert canned cackles from live studio audience).


My mobility has drastically decreased and my muscles are the kind of sore that you get after a long run. I'm reconsidering some life rules about flip flops because bending and tying has become a burden. The other day Chuck took a photo of my toe so I could diagnose why it felt funny.

Then, like some sort of cruel joke, I've started dropping things. It's like my body chemistry and gravity have joined up to create a situation that ends in a symphony of grunts and groans. Chuck suggested that maybe I've always dropped things, but didn't notice because picking it up didn't feel like I'd been shipped off to HotAsHell, Mississippi for Basic Training.

So now, every time I drop something -- my phone, a bunch of Black Olives, my napkin, a barrette, silverware -- I raise an eyebrow as if to say, "See? Being pregnant makes you drop things." Also: You can only get away with making a sad face and pointing at the ground so many times in a single day. Choose wisely.


There are parts of my body that I can no longer reach. And they are the parts of my body that require attention.

1 comment:

feisty said...

clutzyness is a good sign that you are getting closer. dropping shit and bonking into things with my arms/legs/hips was an awful stage. the good news is, it is all over soon. right? oh wait, then it is the 4th trimester of newborn hell....errr, i mean newborn bliss!