Who remembers when I hobbled 165 miles through Utah and Colorado last year?
I DO, I DO.
That adventure started a year ago today, and I can hardly believe it. Let us have a moment of silence for the pain and blisters and magic...
Okay, where were we?
So, one of my favorite things about incubating a human being is all the new, wonderful people who've reached out and taken me under their motherly wings. Literally. The moms. It's, like, you become pregnant and a bat signal goes out. Every woman you've ever known who's ever had a child reaches out their hand to say, "Come to us. Join us. We await you."
I AM NOT EVEN MAD.
And everyone apologizes for giving advice. You guys, I'm not mad at advice either. I like advice. I don't want advice from strangers, particularly, and I don't want judgment masked as "advice," but in case you haven't heard, I've never had a baby before. So when my lovely friends want to recommend proper maternity clothes and baby gadgets and explain to me in graphic detail what is going to happen to my body, I AM OKAY WITH THIS. I really, really am. Because you know what the alternative is? THE INTERNET.
I have learned many things from the internet in the last couple months, and none of them please me.
So dear friends, please do come to me with your wisdom and advice and experiences. If you're not my friend, only come to me if you have donuts. And if you don't have donuts, why?
My world has opened, and I have brunch dates and lunch dates and text conversations and a never-ending supply of support from Those Who've Come Before. BLESS ALL YOUR HEARTS. I adore it all.
I also adore: realness.
When a friend can text me and say, "My kid is an asshole," I support this. And you know what, I bet my kid will be an asshole sometimes, too. Because kids are assholes. And if we can't be real about that, what's the point?
Kids are a blessing, childbirth is a blessing, motherhood is a blessing, but kids can be assholes and let us not pretend otherwise. I don't have to like all kids. I don't have to like your kid. Pregnancy didn't rewire my brain or my being. But I will love my kid. Endlessly. To the edges of this gigantic, sprawling earth. Forever. But I will never not admit when the child who sprung forth from my loins is a jerk. Or when being pregnant is gross. Or when I wish I could drink one goddamn beer. Or when parenting is hard as hell and I want to crawl under a rock and wake up to be 22 again.
Let us be honest. Always.
Also, my baby bump, while small, has arrived. We returned home from a delicious Mexican dinner the other night, and while I was certainly bloated and full of complimentary chips and salsa (because obviously), the belly I arrived home with DID NOT GO AWAY.
Sure as shit, there is a wee bump. AND IT FEELS SO STRANGE. I don't recognize this belly. I still feel cautiously self-conscious, however small it is, but I'm pleased to have moved beyond the point of unrecognizable bloating. The other thing(s) I don't recognize are my boobs, but let's stop discussing and thinking about my boobs. Except Todd. I suppose he can. Although my body would argue that he's done quite enough, thank you.
Bodies are fascinating. While I continue to fear what's to come for my body, and what will come of it in the aftermath, I'm still blown away by what it's actually doing. I'm told many women will feel the baby move at this point in pregnancy, and I find myself staring into space, concentrating far too hard on my innards, trying to determine whether I can feel a pomegranate-sized life form throwing its arms and legs into the primordial ooze of my womb.
No such luck yet.
Whoever that life form is will become much clearer in a few weeks when we find out whether our precious chips and salsa baby is a boy or a girl. June 2 is the appointment, and I am excessively antsy. This is a running theme in my life, if you haven't noticed.
I am now accepting wagers on the result, but you're only allowed to bet if your vote is girl.
I definitely just jinxed myself.
Seventeen weeks down! Awaiting my merit badge.