When it comes to fantasies, I'm guessing most women think something along the lines of laying on a tropical beach with Brad Pitt.

Not me.

When my brain has a minute of down-time, I create imaginary conversations with Dr. Jacome, where he calls me at home to tell me that they grossly miscalculated my due date and that Reagan should be born by the end of the week, just in time to be able to use the new childbirth procedure that doesn't hurt a bit and leaves your body looking tighter than it did your junior year of high school. Oh, and I can go ahead and keep the inflated boobs. And wait, wait a second- I won the Free Housecleaning and Nanny service for the next 18 years!

Now nobody speak above a whisper, I don't want to wake up...

Workin' it...

I went back to work the last two days, and I'm not being overly dramatic when I say that it's even more miserable than I remembered it. A woman comically pregnant like I am has no business being in a fast-paced environment, especially one which requires a lot of bending, leaning, walking, carrying, and my personal favorite- squeezing through narrow aisleways. That's just the physical requirements of the job. Even more annoying than the fact that I physically cannot do many of my occupational requirements without straining, huffing and puffing, or bumping into people is the fact that EVERYONE wants to talk about my pregnancy. ALL DAY. STRANGERS. Now, I've got plenty of regulars with whom I'm on a first-name basis, who ask about my life and times in a non-obtrusive way because we've built a professional rapport. That's fine. What I'm starting to get really annoyed with is how I can't make it from Point A to Point B without being stopped and baited into a conversation. It usually goes something like this:

1. Customer notices I'm pregnant.
2. Customer remarks on my pregnancy, usually by saying something that they intend to be humorous but fails miserably.
3. Customer asks when I'm due.
4. Customer then gives opinion on due date, falling into one of three catergories:
A. "Almost here!" (Actually, no. It's about 64 days away, and it seems like for-effing-ever. But thanks.)
B. "But it's going to be so hot in the summer!" (Whaaaaaat? Hot? But, but, but, I don't get it, I live in Palm Desert. It gets hot here? 120 degrees, that's hot? Hmm. Thanks.)
C. "My birthday/husband's birthday/child's birthday/hairdresser's/dog walker's/pedicurist's birthday is in July, shoot for the [insert any day in July here]!" (I usually tell them that I'm only accepting requests for dates before my due date... and that's only if they're excellent tippers. Ok, I don't really say that... although I might hint towards it.)
5. "What are you having???"
Usually, if I want to end the conversation at this point, I say "A BABY." and keep walking. Assuming that didn't happen, things progress as such...
6. Customer inquires about the name of the incubating fetus.
7. Customer inquires about any other children I have, and if I want to have more after this.
8. Customer asks if my husband is excited. (I'll level with you here, I NEVER would correct people before I was married. One of the first things I said to Chris about being married was "Now when I talk about my husband, I'm not lying!")
9. Customer asks my SSN, blood type, favorite color, Chris's favorite pizza topping, and then asks me to guess a number between 1 and 100. Ok, maybe not, this is usually the part where they deliver a monologue about their experience with pregnancy and babies in general. Usually I start to get fidgety and try to weasel my way out of the conversation, because OH I'M NOT ACTUALLY TRYING TO DO MY JOB ON TOP OF HAVING THE SAME CONVERSATION EVERY TEN STEPS. If I'm not preoccupied, though, I try to smile a lot through lovely step number nine, because I will usually reap the benefits in one second...
10. I tell the chatty customer that unfortunately, I have to get back to work. This is when they release me from their conversational clutches, but most of the time not without telling me something nice, usually that I'm all belly! Seriously, as much as I bitch about it, getting a sincere compliment about looking good (especially after all of my preggo trauma) is worth having to answer the same questions over and over again. If it buys me five minutes worth of thinking that maybe not everyone sees the fat sea hag that I feel like most days, well, then I'll do it. I'm aware of how superficial that sounds and you know what? I DON'T CARE.

I'm only a little behind schedule.

Yup, that's the only time you're going to find the words "little" and "behind" on my page consecutively!!!

This picture was taken about three weeks ago.



I love how my veins (which weren't very obvious in the original version of the picture) look like a roadmap of the Los Angeles Freeways.

On the bright side:

Chris and I had enough kidless time to catch Spider-man 3 this weekend. I think it was the addition of our two tickets that made the film earn the spot of Highest Summer Opening Weekend Of Ever And All Time. Needless to say, the Sunday afternoon movie-going crowd was out in full force, but luckily we were able to find two seats, actually next to each other, in the middle of the theater. The downside was that I was left with no claimable armrests, nor a viable cup holder to place my delicious icy-cold beverage. Not to worry, though! Aforementioned cup rested perfectly on top of my belly.

Another wonderful use of my baby bump? Well, aside from housing what promises to be the most adorable child ever, I've also found it comes in quite handy while snacking. Now renegade crumbs and sundry bits of food don't fall to the floor- they land right on the plateau of stomach, giving them the opportunity to be second-chanced right back into my greedy mouth.

Score two for the preggo!

Step right up, folks, step right up!

Either there's something not entirely right here, or the websites/books that say Braxton-Hicks contractions are supposed to be painless were written by a man. You know, just like how PMS is a figment of our imaginations.

Maybe it's round ligament pain or a curse from god. Who knows, but coupled with the general bovine-ish feeling of milk-making and toes that look like cocktail weenies, I've become quite the little circus freak.

The supreme amount of discomfort that has piled up in the last few days comes as no shock to me. I was past due, seeing as how I had a fairly good week, gestationally speaking. I appeased my doctors by gaining less than a pound, and although my sugar levels are still on the high side, they were lower than last month and my Gestational Diabetes screen came back negative. I even made it through my Rhogam shot without as much as a flinch! (This is a huge step up from my usual role as The Girl Who Gets Blood Drawn And Then Passes Out In A Planter.) It didn't even phase me that they didn't cover the injection site with a Sesame Street bandaid, nor did I get a lollipop for my bravery. Oh yeah, this is going to be a blast. I'm patting myself on the back for getting a shot. Just wait till the whole PASSING A CHILD comes along.

Shit.

Just sayin'...

EVERYONE* NEEDS A BELLA BAND!


No longer am I exposing inches of stomach overhang! I don't know who's more excited about my Bella Band- me, or all the people that no longer have to look at my bare belly peeping over my pants and out from under my shirts. I might just be in the honeymoon stage still, but I think this is my #1 clothing-related must-have for pregnancy.



*Everyone who's pregnant, I mean.

Rites of passage.

Yesterday, the nesting instinct kicked in so badly that I found myself digging through my kitchen cupboards looking for pots and pans to scour. The problem with that is my belly is so big that I can't get up close enough to the sink. Imagine the look of shock/horror/amazement as Chris walked into the kitchen to find me sitting on the counter top, feet in the sink, scrubbing my wok with steel wool. I'm about as inclined to scrub pots as Nicole Richie is to eat a cheeseburger, so I'm just glad Chris didn't assume I'd been Body Snatched and try to beat up the Alien Replacement Nik. That would have only made a bigger mess. Which I would have cleaned. With my toothbrush. Instead, Chris found a nice, non-offensive way of insinuating that I had finally lost my last marble, and offered to finish the job. I told him I'd rather finish the job myself, and I meant it, and delegated him in charge of cleaning the top of the fridge.

Other joys of pregnancy have started manifesting themselves this week, such as colostrum and leg cramps. For fear of treading into the murky waters of T.M.I., pretend like I never said "colostrum". That leaves us at leg cramps. Ok, ok, I would probably want to retaliate too, were I a calf muscle. I understand, they're way overworked lately. They're hauling around all that extra weight, I should expect a rebellion. Through both prior pregnancies, I was tortured with middle-of-the-night leg cramps. If you've been unlucky enough to have one, you might remember it as being excruciating, because that's how I think back on them. I have been waiting in silent fear for one to strike since the second I found out about this pregnancy, and last night marked the first attack from my otherwise very trustworthy calves. My muscle is still aching!

Because I am constantly trying to change the way I filter things into a more positive light, I now present to you the silver lining:

At least I am not in the .5% of women who develop a THIRD NIPPLE during pregnancy! Nah, don't bother re-reading that last sentence, you did have it right the first time.

And people, it can happen to anyone, although it is more common during pregnancy. For those of you with no sympathy for myself or my fellow incubators, I hope you all grow nipples on the bottoms of your feet. Because it can totally happen, see? (There's even a picture, that's how much I love my readers.) My gift to you! Free of charge! Now have a great day.