Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Pregnant and bloated is the new black.

13 weeks.  That's how pregnant I am.  And feels like I've been growing this person for years.  I can't believe there's six more months yet.  And it was intentional and I'm grateful, but I feel as though I fall into the grass is always greener category of women.  I would see pregnant women smiling through the grocery store and hate them because I wasn't them.  And now, I see that bachelorette, Ali, in her skimpy bikinis galavanting in Tahiti as I suck on my frozen Mango pop, my breasts taking over my body, and the bloat stopping me from enjoying most things I eat...and I hate her for being so skinny and free.

Ah, how we are never quite satisfied.

Before I was married, I envisioned myself as that barefoot and pregnant woman who adored growing people.  I assumed one day I would even do it for other people.  "What? Having trouble getting knocked up?  Borrow MY uterus for awhile! Sure! Why not??"  And now that the little guy is actually in there, I feel like I'd be ok if someone just handed him to me and I could eat Shahi Paneer again without gagging.  Maybe it will improve in the next few months.  I'm looking forward to the little person getting bigger so I can at least feel the kicking and discomfort on a different level.  And crap, if I'm going to be complaining about how uncomfortable I am, I should at least have something to show for it.

Along with my distaste for all things edible these days comes an unprejudiced hatred for my wardrobe.  It's not even that things don't fit me yet; they mostly do.  I just can't stand anything I own anymore.  But buying new clothes seems silly, given that I'm just going to out-grow them in a few months' time.  It's too soon to get maternity clothes and I don't feel good about spending the food budget on cotton anyway.   So it's gray sweats and t-shirts these days because those items don't accentuate the baby-induced muffin-top I've been rocking.

Nothing in this life has made me feel my age as much as getting pregnant.  And I knew it would.  At 34 I looked at my husband and gave him the "it's now or never" speech about getting preggo.  And now, as it turns out, I'll be 36 when I deliver our child.  I'm not a fan of my Ob/Gyn who, on our very first visit, told us we "need" to do genetic testing because I'm 35.   Ah, 35...the number at which people carrying babies are deemed old.   (By the way, I'm not doing genetic testing.  It's not for me.  This kid is ours no matter what kind of weirdo things s/he winds up with. We already know she'll have a proclivity towards the super-natural and most likely be born holding a light-saber and by golly, I'm going to love her anyway.)

With learning I'm having a baby has come the mourning for things I never was. (Hence, this blog. Lucky you!)  The actor, the teacher, the circus performer...the professional traveler, the game show host...sigh.  So many things to be in so little time.  And yet, when I find myself overwhelmed by things I could or should be doing in my time off, I grab a sack of potato chips and do nothing.  Nothing conquers indecision like procrastination.  And besides, "if you can't achieve it in 20 minutes, it's probably not worth doing."--Al Fontaine, circa 1999.  But I digress...What I SHOULD be focusing on are things I am now and am becoming. Like a Mom.  I've cared for other people's kids for so long it seems I've become numb to the fact that I'm going to have my own.  None of them have ever called me "Mom," nor have I been the one they cried for.  So really, here I am gearing up for that.  I get to do all the work I ever did in raising a kid, only now I don't get paid. BUT--I DO get to be the one the kid freaks out for when I walk out the door..and I'm looking forward to the shoe being on that foot.