6 06 2012

People tend to complain when I say that.

I’m not entirely sure why. I am, after all, becoming rather bovine, huge frame and all, and as my friend Jill enjoyed pointing out during her pregnancy this time last year, pregnancy ends with one morphing from being just a cow into being a milk-cow, whose only purpose really is to lumber around being immense and producing milk for others’


consumption (ok, really only one other, in my case, but my friends Emily K. and Janet C. are both feeding plural consumers right now, and I bet they totally get what I’m talking about). Quarter-horse-like dexterity, running, and leaping are all things of the past; those grates embedded in a country road right now would totally thwart me. And Matt keeps pointing out my slow thinking and forgetfulness and blaming baby-brain, which is really exactly the same thing as cow-brain, since it’s not the baby being asked to think in these daily scenarios. So, really, it seems appropriate to me. I do try to be good-natured about it. After all, if one has to be immense, one may as well get to enjoy making fun of oneself.

It’s really not all that bad these days, or at least it wouldn’t be, if this were still the 70s and everybody still wore mumus (and if it were consistently warm enough for mumus anyway). Clothing is my biggest fight, every day, all the time. Things that temporarily fit don’t fit for long. Maternity pickings at the Salvation Army are slim, and new clothes are just too dang expensive for broke people. Mostly, I live in extra-large skirts and a combination of the few maternity shirts I’ve scored + a few old ones still long enough to mostly get away with it (you can see how well this is working today–have to hike the skirt up over the belly to leave the house) + the XL t-shirts I, like everybody else, was wearing in the 80s that I still had in the attic, although I’ve long since cut the necks out of those to make them into sleepwear, so they too don’t really work for leaving the house. But otherwise I’m back to feeling human–albeit like a much fatter human than I ever wanted to be–instead of like the barely walking corpse I was in months 1-4, and food is usually not my enemy these days, although I’ve already warned it that after we have this baby, we are never going to be friends again. I think I’m going to have to put myself on a diet of lettuce and birdseed.

For now, though, the docs say my weight is fine, and they have the degrees, so I have to believe them. They’ve also got all of the rest of my appointments already scheduled–my calendar is peppered with them, more and more densely in the months to come–and I was super-brave and signed up for childbirth classes at our hospital for August, so those are on the calendar too, looming at me and whispering their horrible stories about pain and screaming and pooping on the delivery-room floor. Yes. The internet prepares me for all sorts of fun ahead. (And now you know why my doctor’s first and most often-repeated piece of advice for me is to get off the internet. But, really, how much more horrifying would it be to poop on the floor and not know that lots of people do it? And you wonder why comparisons to livestock seem so fitting…)

If you’ve never had a baby and you got this far into this post, rest assured that I am imagining your horrified face and I am laughing at you. In a kind and good-natured way, of course. Because it’s got to be funny to not make a person completely insane to have to imagine.





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