It’s been quite some time since my last post, nearly a year in fact, and my what a year it has been. Since having a fairy tale wedding, including a European adventure in which I managed to break our rental car while learning to drive stick, climb down Mont Blanc while tipsy wearing my Nike Free “weightless, grip-less sneakers,” getting a sly eye from the owner of a winery in Bordeaux as my husband winced knowing his lushy wife was way over the limit, and a host of other “incidents,” I’ll just surmise the entire collection of experiences to be a plethora of fond memories. I might break those down later as I’m nostalgic for last year’s excursions, which I would be incapable of doing presently since I’m about to spawn a new generation of life.
There’s a little boy chilling in my uterus, sometimes content, most of the time, causing some sort of ruckus, which is fitting as he is my child after all and being well-behaved in utero would be unheard of. I started my new job as an editor/writer feeling deathly ill, vomiting, spitting, dry heaving and dropping 10 lbs. as this nugget sprouted to life. It’s still bizarre to me that I’m continuing the cycle of life by leaving a piece of myself and my husband, separate from ourselves, set to leave his own mark on things.
Well, I’ve got six weeks to go and so far, the little guy is content to sit pretty—as in upright and full-out breech position. I’ve read the horror stories and guilt trips online about c-sections, vaginal breech births…”visualizing” a breech birth or something—very strange. I’ve leaned off my bed with my arms on the floor, ass in the air, so that he might want to flip. I may even take to the pool and try some handstands. I find out next week if I’ll need to go that far when I have another ultrasound.
I’m hoping I don’t have to as the recent bouts staring at my stomach with it’s protruding edges and shifting, misshapen form means he is in the process of, or already has, flipped head down. Watching an arm drag across or a foot jab—or is that a fist?—is crazy. I sometimes wonder if he realizes he’s in there and is claustrophobic and wants to cram out of there before he develops some crazy psychological aversion to small, dark spaces.
I’ve kind of tapped out of normal everyday life during this pregnancy. After I got over the morning sickness, the second trimester was much nicer. Everyone didn’t smell like bad breath and I was sleeping through the night. I even managed to get out and socialize a bit, which was fabulous. Now in the third trimester, I awake five to seven times a night to pee, or choke on my own vomit from the sudden onset of heartburn. He moves around and hits me in the weirdest places, but I’m always glad to feel it. It’s nice to know he’s still getting on OK in there, despite the cramped quarters.
Now I’m just waiting. Waiting as my ass continues to expand, my leggings getting snugger and snugger as I waddle from the train to the office in the mornings, never failing to catch myself in the reflections of the buildings I pass. I haven’t worn jeans since December. On some occasions I manage to spruce myself up to look like a “cute” preggo 20-something, but in most cases, I just throw on some leggings and something stretchy on top. I’ve started wearing my bright red running shoes to work more often, instead of my much cuter and more work-appropriate ballerina flats. Why? Because at this point, some cute flats won’t camoflauge the fact that I’m large and coming at you, so I might as well be comfortable, lest I fall over or slam my stomach into a wall while making a tight turn walking through the office (which has happened, it’s amazing how having 30 extra lbs. in your stomach region can throw off not only your depth perception, but sense of balance).
Most of all, it’ll be nice to meet him. I know he’s in there and no matter how much I think about it, it’s still crazy that in a few weeks, I’ll have a little kid that will look up to me and expect me to know things. Growing up I always thought my parents knew everything and could resolve any suspect situation. My dad could crush any adversary and my mother could outwit anyone.
Perhaps an example of my own laziness, I didn’t fully realize I could have my own set of thoughts and beliefs completely divergent to my parents’ if I wanted until I was in my late teens. I think this time around, I’ll instill the ideas I’d like him to care about, but let him know that there’s no point in believing in anything if you don’t question everything, constantly, to the point of ridiculousness. And I’ll end on that random note.