|
Weeks 32 to 33
Almost There
OhMyGod, I am so pregnant. I am huge. I forgot that I could become this huge. People look at me with pity and disbelief. Even my forgiving maternity pants press on my abdomen to the point of pain that causes that chronic, incurable urge to pee.
So I pee every 20 minutes or so. Henry finds this, coupled with my shocking size, entertaining. “How can you make so much pee, where do you store it?” he asks, incredulously. Once, when he accompanied me to a jam-packed public restroom, he exclaimed, “Mama!!! Your tushy cheeks are HUMONGOUS!” This amused the entire row of urinating women, who chuckled and waited for me to emerge from my stall. I have to admit, I find such moments more enjoyable than embarrassing. I gave Henry a wet kiss on the nose.
Comments from other voyeurs, however, are less pleasant.
“You popped!” says my nosey neighbor.
Yeah, I’m nearly nine months pregnant; I’m supposed to pop.
“Wow, you’re even bigger than you were the last time I saw you,” says another, who sees me daily.
Hmmm, perhaps that’s because I have a living thing growing inside me?
“So the doctors must think this is going to be an extra large baby, huh?”
No. He’s right on track. And by the way, you’re an extra large adult, I think loudly. What’s your excuse?
“Isn’t it time for you to stop working?” my co-workers ask as I waddle past.
This is a tough one: when to stop working. Too soon and I look less than totally devoted to my job. Too late and I look like one of those paranoid people who worries she’ll look less than totally devoted to her job. My company is lenient about these things, and my boss even more so. But I can’t quite quit. For the time being, work is a decent distraction, a reason to wash my super-sized body and apply mascara, a place to be productive and valuable. If I sat home waiting for labor to begin, I’d go crazy.
|
|
|
|
|
But I have to admit, it is hard to work. My legs hurt by noon. I get dead-tired at 2:00. By 5:00 it feels as though the baby will simply plummet out of my crotch. I lack the energy to run errands on my way home, which means Henry gets fed a lot of microwaved mac and cheese instead of freshly prepared chicken and rice. By the time I bathe and put him to bed I’m ready to turn in myself. At which point Jack comes home, we eat dinner, I inhale a coveted piece of dark chocolate and feel so full I practically burst away from the table. And then I get that dreadful second wind, the one that keeps me up, wondering, worrying, until midnight has come and gone.
The worries are low-level and, I assume, typical. How the hell do I push this baby out of me? Can I withstand another season of exhaustion to the point of pure despair? Will I hate Jack as much this time as I did soon after Henry was born and he was virtually useless? Will I ever have sex again? Will I want to? Can I teach my father not to call repeatedly, hourly, on every land- cell- and fax-line we have just to make sure everyone is fine? How will I lose all the weight without starving, and where will I find the stamina to work out? Will this kid need to be breastfed 35 times a day? How will I coordinate pumping at the office, and when, and what about supplementing every now and then so I can hand the baby off to another person? Will I stay awake all night even when he’s not, just to ensure he’s still breathing? Can I ever take a vacation as long as I live? Did I make the biggest mistake of my life?
I indulge in these thoughts, drift in and out of sleep for hours, then begin a new day by bringing Henry to school. Before he puts away his lunch box, he shows me the art projects he’s been working on and my worries seem like someone else’s bad dreams: stapled swatches of gingham-a blanket for his new baby brother; a painting of his family, complete with a baby alongside him in the stroller; and a sign: “Welcome Home Baby ______.” He’ll finish it, he tells me, after he meets his baby brother and finds out his name. How much longer, he asks my belly excitedly, does he have to wait?
|
|
|
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
ARCHIVE:
 |
|
