Sure, there’s nothing glamorous about carrying a watermelon, so to speak, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I rather enjoy many parts of being pregnant. For example, you get to wear elastic-waist pants all the time. Your hair gets really thick and shiny; I mean, sure, it doesn’t last but if this is as close as I’m going to get in my lifetime to my Pantene Moment, you’d better believe I’m going to revel in it. It’s so very wrong, but I even secretly enjoy the soft bigotry of low expectations as literally nothing I admit — that I’ve been only swimming two times a week instead of three recently, that if I cook dinner twice a week, it’s a triumph, etc. — is met with less than “Go you! That’s amazing!” I even delight in watching people’s expressions change to borderline-panic on the street as they realize this rather normal-looking woman approaching them is, in fact, colossal when viewed from the side.
That is, until the end. The final weeks are a little different, aren’t they? They are both too long and too short, erratic sleep, puffy feet, and can I admit that I dread standing in line at the grocery store because I know I won’t escape without having to converse with a stranger about the state of my midsection? I actually found myself debating the pros/cons of a grocery store run yesterday because of this, but fortunately, the need for cream cheese and graham crackers for cheesecake ice cream pie triumphed, as it always and forever should.
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