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Weeks 16 to 19
I'm Morphing
Let it be known that I am truly (no pun intended) in the thick of it. I am inarguably pregnant. It’s as if sharing the news with my family and my boss liberated my belly from its blockade. The shorts I was able to close barely make it past my hips. The jeans I hoped to wear through the fall are a fantasy. Even my old maternity clothes look sort of cute. I have clearly passed that awkward, sheepish stage where people look at me funny and wonder if I am simply eating too many bagels. Now they smile knowingly at my rotund abdomen. Some even offer me seats on the bus!
It’s a huge relief. So much easier to be out there—literally and figuratively—than it was to be shoved into my own zippers and snaps. Still, it’s amazing how critical I can be of my own body. I look at my large belly and lament the fact that it’s not basketball-shaped and low like those gorgeous pregnant women in magazines. My belly begins at my ribs and descends to my pelvis. It’s more of a bulbous oval than it is a tight sphere. My hips, which were never narrow, have spread east and west and my ass, well, that’s another sore spot altogether. I envy those women with tight little figures and perfect little bulges.
But to be fair, and honest, I am not very large. I have gained very little weight, so little that I checked in with my doctor to ensure all is well. With Henry, I ate round the clock, packing on a good 20 pounds by the 20th week. But this go-around, I have lost most of my appetite. The first trimester resulted in a 3-pound weight loss, and today I am only 3-pounds heavier than I was when I conceived. I don’t know if it was the fear of gaining a whopping 50-plus pounds like the last time that robbed me of my lust for food, or the very purposeful reduction of grilled cheese and fries, or the bout with bronchitis and, subsequently, the stomach flu that kept my weight in check, but whatever the case, I really do look pretty good. This pleases me.
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It also seems to please my coworkers, who monitor my ever-changing figure with great interest. Amazing how one’s body becomes the subject of public discussion when pregnant. On a normal day, would anyone at work dare praise my larger breasts or the way I look in my jeans? They ask how I’m feeling, whether it’s harder now that I’m "so much older."
I hate to admit that it is. I’m tired. The clock strikes 5:00 and I have nothing left in me. Bathing Henry is an effort and by dinner time, I’d rather just lie in bed and let the TV watch me. Twice last week I sneaked out of work to my gym and instead of swimming—which makes me feel good—I lay down on the lawn chair and napped. I walk slowly and feel breathless. Stairs are a project. I worry that by the ninth month I’ll be unable to haul my fatigued body out of bed. But I try to take things one week at a time. Here I am in week 19, almost halfway there. The end doesn’t seem impossibly out of sight.
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