Thoughts on This Whole Being Knocked Up Business: Edition 2

Well, hi.

Would you believe another four weeks have passed in this pilgrimage de preggoville? I’m right at the halfway mark, and I can proudly say with complete poise and confidence, “waaaaaaaaaaaaah.”

It’s actually been a fantastic four weeks! I’ve never felt more incredible. I’ve got energy. I’ve got sass. I’ve got rhythm. I’ve got music. I’ve got an extra 15 pounds hanging off the front of me like whoa.

1) Heartbeats, Blood Pressure and Other Cardiovascular Bidniz: Okay, I think I read somewhere that pregnant women’s hearts pump like 40% faster than regular women’s. DUDES, that’s fast. I didn’t really think too much about it, but when I nearly passed out into a bowl of hot queso in a public restaurant with friends we hadn’t seen in a few years, ooooops? I’d basically been sitting in my chair with my legs crossed for too long, and all my blood had hitchhiked to Liechtenstein and left me there for dead. Thank GAWD I didn’t pass out. I’m not quite sure I’ll see those friends for a very long time though.

Also, I can SEE my heartbeat. Like, in my eyes. I can see it. Pulse, pulse, pulse, right in my eyes. It’s like a flashy disco party in Club Cranium, but without a DJ and glow-in-the-dark pacifiers. Lame.

2) Belly Itching and Weird Red Dots: To make this clear, I totally apply belly butter. Every day. Twice a day. I’m obsessed. But I still itch! What’s the deal, man? Is it the skin stretching? Are there little fibers of flesh that need extra TLC after a long day of mini yoga workouts? That’s really disgusting.

AND. I think it’s hormones, but I’ve noticed a few (but probably ahem, more) tiny red dots appear here and there. I’m not going to go into detail about where “here and there” actually is, because this site is rated PG. PG-13, whatever. But I’m telling you what, if the dots continue to pop up, we are going to have Pee Wee Herman over for a dang connectin’ heyday.

ANDDDD. I don’t even want to go into what my belly button is starting to look like. Oh, it’s still in. Don’t get squeamish. But it’s . . . weird.

I’m writing a letter to congress.

3) Touching of the Belly from Strangers:  To be completely honest, this doesn’t bother me at all. I mean geez, I’ve waited seven years to even HAVE a belly to touch. If some rando wants to touch it, be my guest. Shoot, if you want to set your meatball sub on it while you tie your shoe, don’t let me stop ya. (and can I have a bite?)

But but BUT.

The other day I was in a clothing store, just mindin’ my own, when a little old Italian woman noticed me and my “frontal expansion,” and in a deep, thick accent gushes and says to me, “Oooooo, you preeeeeegnant!” Me, “Yesss!” Her, “When you duuuue?” Me, “Late January, but I have twins, so probably a few weeks before that.” Her, “TWEEEEEENS! TWEEEEENS!” And she reaches up to my belly and gives me a quick pat and says, “Blessssss.” Sweet lady, right? As I started to say thank you, she THEN raised her hand a few inches north, placed it smack on my right boob, pat it THREE TIMES, “Blessssss. Blessssss. Blessssss.”

Ummmm, WHAT? Is this what we’re doing these days? What is she like, blessing my milk? Making sure it’s holy or something? Want me to stick a straw in it and aspirate a quick milkshake? Make sure we’re good?

I totally got molested in TJMaxx.

4) Maternity Clothing: Speaking of, what the WONK is wrong with maternity clothes? I don’t even understand what’s going on. I tried on 4 billion, 13 thousand and 23947825 pieces of maternity wear, and immediately wanted to light myself on fire and run out the nearest window, Family Guy-style. They might as well have a section with nothing but garbage bags, plastic tents and potato sacks. We’d probably look better in that anyway.

Jerks.

5)  Also, I learned how to twerk. And I’m extremely sorry to the ENTIRE world and your eyeballs.

6) Sitting and Spitting: This is a darling one. I’ve come to accept that I now sit like a farmer. I don’t know how it happened, but my new natural way of sitting on the sofa involves one leg east of the Mississippi, and one leg west. With a cookie hanging out of my mouth. And I’m okay with this.

Also, I’m redefining what it means to be a lady and spit constantly. I seriously have pools of saliva just hanging out in my mouth at all times waiting to make a grand exit. Maybe I should chew on some straw? Or hair?

So yeah, when you add up farmer sitting, spitting like a frat dude and scratching my belly more minutes than not, you’ve got a real Greta Garbo on your hands.

7) He Won’t Let It Go: So my parents were up visiting for my birthday a couple of weekends ago, and as we were sitting around the breakfast table opening gifts and drinking (decaf. yawn.) coffee, Aaron, my dearest, my beloved, the father of my unborn children, brings me the jankiest bag I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and proclaims, “Happy Birthday, Sweets!”

“Oh, thanks! What’s . . . this?” I begin to open it, as he stands next to me in full-blown shakes with his hand over his mouth and tears pooling up around his eyes. Never trust a man with his hand over his mouth, you guys.

What I discovered in the BIRTHDAY GIFT BAG, I’d like to remind you, was the below. Oh yeah, this is actual crime scene footage.

. . . Hi, plaster gauze and a bag of chips.

Does he think this is actually going to happen? Do you think there’s a chance of him drugging me and making a belly mold against my will? Should I go ahead with that spousal restraining order?

SERIOUSLY, SOMEONE GET GEORGE CLOONEY ON THE PHONE FOR ME.

So, there we have it. Another four weeks gone by, another handful of charming and . . .  glamorous memories to share.

Also, we have names. But I’ll tell you about that later on.

Okay, weeks 20 through 24. I’m braced! I’m ready! Please don’t hurt me.

. . . . .

Edition 1, in case ya missed it. And I’m sorry in advance.