Spare the rod
Thus far, aside from my expanding bosom and occasional nausea (and conspicuous pineapple consumption, of course), I haven't felt very pregnant for the past 13-14 weeks. But now, quite suddenly, my belly has decided to teach me a thing or two about who is in charge (clue: it is not me). I can feel things stretching and expanding and suddenly I groan whenever I have to bend over and pick something up. Basically, I am finally convinced that someone has taken up residence in my uterus.
Maybe some of you can relate to this: for the longest time I was convinced that somehow six home pregnancy tests, a blood test, and my midwife were all WRONG and that I was not pregnant at all, ho ho ho, silly woman! Even after we heard the heartbeat I convinced myself that it wasn't a baby that we heard, no, it was simply my intestines being quite cranky over that morning's oat bran cereal. I had all sorts of related dreams about things not being what they appeared: I go the cabinet for my oatmeal and find the cardboard container filled with rice pudding, or I get into my car to drive to work and realize that I'm sitting on a park bench, searching fruitlessly for the ignition.
(those are embarrassingly obvious dreams, aren't they? I wish my dreams were obscure and complicated and necessitating long-term psychoanalysis, so I could stretch out on a fainting couch and... oh, let's be honest- I'd take a nap.)
Anyway, this is what my pants be looking like these days, all classy-like:
off and snaps some poor library patron in the eye.
And here's my wee bump, which you probably thought would be enormous based on all the complaining I just did:
For anyone who may be wondering, I took my belly ring out. It happened accidentally, sort of. While we were at my parents' house over Christmas Mike said, "So, I guess you'll have to take the belly ring out at some point." And I stared down at it and thought, huh. I'd had it for a good twelve years and honestly, I had no idea how to remove it. So I started fiddling around with the little ball and, whoops! Off it popped and I took the ring out and that was that.
"Don't worry," my dad reassured me. "You can always get it pierced again." Which was kind of funny to hear coming from my ex-commanding officer military father.
But I doubt I will, which is kind of a shame. I've always had a tiny belly button and from what I remember, it was hard to pierce the first time around. From what experienced mothers tell me, there will be so much more to pierce later on.
So, is it too late to talk about last weekend's activities? On Sunday Mike and I had a lovely lunch at Jaleo and then walked to the Verizon Center for a Caps game. Unfortunately, we ended up sitting directly in front of two screeching little girls who continuously screeched in our ears, kicked the backs of our seats, screeched (did I mention the SCREECHING?), jumped around and nearly dropped an ice cream cone on my head.
Look, I know we were at a hockey game. It's supposed to be loud, yes. I know the girls were excited. But general loudness and loudness aimed directly at your eardrums are two different things. And the seat kicking. God, I'll definitely be adding seat kicking to my list of pet peeves.
We wondered why the parents didn't do anything to settle their kids down, and eventually moved a few rows up to get away from them. And from that vantage point we realized why no action had been taken: they weren't parents, they were slaves! We watched in amazement as the parents continuously ran back and forth to the vendor counters, buying the kids whatever struck their fancies: ice cream, popcorn, mini hockey sticks, you name it. Give me a napkin! I want gum! Make my baby brother disappear! And damned if that infant didn't vanish in a puff of black smoke.
When it was time to leave, those in our section could barely get down the stairs because there were three little boys climbing and flipping all over the railing like it was a jungle gym. I almost came home with a kid-sized Nike imprint on my forehead. Again, the parents seemed like they could care less.
We finally got out to the street and took a breath. I looked at Mike.
"Am I crotchety?" I began. "Is it because I was raised in a military family that behavior like that would have been unimaginable when I was a kid?"
"No." Mike said. "My dad would have killed me dead with his eyes."
We will be perfect parents of a perfect child, I'm sure. And now you should print this out and save it so that you can laugh your ass off the first time our kid has a screaming tantrum in the grocery store and knocks over a towering display of jarred spaghetti sauce.