Being Noticable

Well, enough with the doom and gloom. Back from a weekend in sunny San Diego I have to say I feel much rejuvenated. The midwest in January can be a big weight, and we needed this pre-baby break from Chicago. Vitamin D, and the smell of fishy, salty air, wafts of eucalyptus, a mani pedi in a Thai inspired garden, watching surfers and eating well. Also, our host treated me like a princess. Not that he doesn't always, he's European after all and has always been the most gentlemanly of gentlemen. My favorite part was getting picked up in the 60s Ford Econoline from the salon to go to the beach - my husband (!) had taken the front seat, the only seat, so I was confused. They threw open the big sliding door to reveal the giant black papazon chair from the house snugly fit into the back among the surfing boards and beach accoutrement. Oh yes, I'll take that thanks.

Big belly wardrobe envy.

Its a bit strange to be so - visibly a pod person.  You can tell the women at work who already have kids - they size you up with a smile and say, "looking good!" Women who have never had kids think it rude to even look more than a glance, or to acknowledge the bump at all, owing to our society's polite standards about commenting on another female's shape. I don't blame them - this was me a mere few months ago. Upon hearing that a friend was pregnant my first response was "no shit! congratulations!" as I mentally calculated how many happy hours and boozy girls weekends we would have to sacrifice from here on out.

No less than two African American women in the airport stopped me to ask if I was having a girl. I can only surmise that in the community I am the fucking poster girl for 'carrying high.' Still I was amazed at their confidence in this bit of folklore. And their warmth. Don't usually get that in busy airports.

Getting a bit too big to sneak a pint of Guinness in the bar, although I'll have a glass of wine with dinner if I'm seated in a restaurant (banquette table, please, for my arse is killing me). Although, despite the fact that it is supposed to be safest now, in the third trimester, my desire for even the smallest treat of an adult beverage has simply vanished. I feel like my body works overtime to burn off the alcohol so I just end up feeling hot and dehydrated. "Ah I was a champion drinker!" I would lament. Soon enough again I guess, although never with the same abandon.

Its easy to get people to stow your overhead luggage, bend over and pick up your purse, understand why you've changed your chair three times at your desk or spend hours at a time in the office lounge with your feet up on the couch. You can go home early from the party, snuggle up in bed with your book (not the baby book, not now when everything aches so bad), walk slowly to work, come in late. With a smile and breakfast in your hand.

For someone who has a hard time asking for help, a hard time admitting discomfort, someone with a pretty good work ethic, this is a nice break. This is me when I look in the mirror: "I'm pretty fucking pregnant, damn."

E