18 lbs and counting

So, I have no problems with a girl with a little belly. Whether they're rocking the beer gut or just comfy in their stretched out skin, good for them for being confident in their apple-like shape. The thing is with these women, of whom some are very near and dear to my heart, they did not gain this rotund shape overnight, but it was something they've been working on for years. They've had time to adapt to the changes necessary when you decide to carry a basketball attached to your midsection. However, in pregnancy, you gain this protuberant blessing in a matter of weeks to months and your new addition doesn't come with an instruction guide. So, even when you're only 'a little bigger,' or so your husband tries to convince you, you feel like a full on cow and tard in your own skin. It's like when people are newly walking with a cane or crutches and hit them on everything because they don't relize how wide they are now...only it's your baby...in your fat belly that you ram into everything. The following paragraphs are case in point why it sucks to have a rapidly expanding waistline.

When you have a beautiful bathroom, complete with stand up shower next to your jacuzzi tub, you generally feel lucky. When you're too fat to fit into said shower, you do not feel lucky. A quick romantic shower with your spouse becomes a thing of the past when he offers to join you and you sheepishly hold the door closed mumbling something about being done when you obviously have shampoo in your hair, facewash on your face, a razor in hand and know it's because if you let him in, you'll both be struggling to breath adequately...if the door will close.

This awesome shower also has a 2 ft high little alcove that you used to be able to perch your pretty tootsies on to shave your legs. Used to, because now the concept of raising your ankle remotely near even the bottom of your buddha belly is completely laughable. If you try this, you might fall into the opposite shower wall, which also happens to be the door. This might cause the door to swing wildly open and you to tumble out, nearly hitting your head on the 'quaint' marble deathtrap that used to be your beloved jacuzzi tub. So you give up shaving, which you're husband thinks is totally awesome.

Things are going okay, no more shaving/near death experiences, until one day you reach down to the waiting shampoo on the floor of your teensy enclave only to realize that you have to spread 'em to kind of squat because you can't bend straight over and get it. This not only looks uber-attractive, but now your twice the size ass hits the damn door again, throwing it open and letting all the water splash all over the floor. If you're like some people who maintain a pregnancy blog like this one, you may have a serious pet peeve about water on your bathroom floor and may begin to cry when you realize what you've done, all before getting back in the shower and closing the door. Your husband may find the wading pool of water and knowing your psychotic obsession with water on the floor, not say a word, but just dry it off and go on, in his wet socks, like nothing happened. He may not even ask why all of the toiletries are now on the top two shelves in the shower...except his, which all live on the floor now.

Moving a few feet from the bathroom, your bedroom becomes an area of excitement past once a sizable belly enters the picture. Lets pretend your hubby still finds you attractive and tries to lie on you in order to give you some smoochies or gaze lovingly into your eyes. He now is lying on a cantaloupe that compresses your unborn child into your inferior vena cava until your legs start to ache and you get a little light headed. Not to mention, he now is reminded by this blunt object to the torso, that he has to pee, so needless to say, there end up being no smoochies or gazing for you. You may abandon this position and try to belly-up next to eachother and pretend your fatness doesn't get in the way and your kid isn't kicking him in the bladder through your belly, which can be a little strange. You may try to have him spoon up behind you, only to realize that he can no longer get his arm around you, your ass is double it's previous grandeur and is now almost a hazard to his health should he get lost in its enormity, and to top it all off, your kid HATES this position and lets you know it...non-stop...until you move...away from his father. No smoochies, nada.

'Oh, you're so lucky you're in medicine because you can just wear scrubs when you get pregnant.' This sounds awesome, right? Not when you realize that you are growing at such an exponential rate that you have to upgrade sizes before the third trimester even comes calling, they still suck because you have to tie them below your belly...which compresses your bladder...and makes you have to pee 10 times an hour instead of 8, and whether you tuck in the top or not, it finds its way loose to ride up and show off your streched out bulbous belly at the least opportune times. Like when a creepy guy patient is asking if your pregnant in a way that tells you, a) he knows damn well your pregnant, b) he's really 'in to' pregnant chicks in a super skeezy way that makes your stomach turn. Yep, I sure am lucky.

My most favorite, thus far, is one I have yet to learn from and am a serious repeat offender. Remember those days when you were slender and getting behind the wheel of a car was no big deal because you could have fit a small child in between you and the wheel...not that you would...right Britney? Now, you do have a small child between you and the wheel, but you tend to forget that ALL THE TIME. You think you can still reach into the backseat or the passenger to grab something, but your belly hits the wheel. You think you can pull your purse from the passenger, into your lap, then rotate and get out of the vehicle. This causes you to become tightly wedged into your seat until you physically move the seat backwards so you can actually disembark. You would think that it would only take one episode of this careless wedging of your child tightly to your Dooney, but no. That's not how I roll. Still happens at least every few days and now I like to spice it up and be holding a cup of tea or soda (I'm a pregnancy sinner) or talking on the phone which allows me to douse myself in my beverage of choice or my phone to keep moving once I become fixed and make its way onto the parking lot post haste. This makes my sprint service even more sublime than usual, let me tell you.

Enough with the whining about becoming a butter ball. I'm pretty sure it doesn't look like 18 lbs and everything's been going pretty swimmingly. If the last 15 1/2 weeks are this easy, I'm up for 10 more of the little buggers. To end on a jovial note, for those of you not acquainted with a breast pump, I highly suggest it. While functional, these little devices can be super duper entertaining too. Pretend you have a bestie who you lovingly call 'the moo-cow' who has to pump all the time, especially over lunch. You kind of get used to the ranh-ranh-ranh-ranh-ranh that can lull you into a nice little postprandial nappy.

It's also super fun when you find yourself at the outlet mall over lunchtime and she needs to use a car pump...oh yeah, they exist. ( How many times has someone been moo-cowing it up in the car next you and you never even suspected? I bet you start looking now.) Anyway. Pretend you park facing a little lake with little, cute duckies and she starts the extraction process. Pretend that everything is not exactly in place and the super strong pumping device makes a really loud slurping/sucking noise against her bosom that sounds just like a really loud duck quacking. Apparently this particular 'really loud duck quacking' noise is a signal to all the ducks that can hear it quite well through your open sunroof and windows and they start to aggressively approach the car with looks in their little ducky eyes that are in a way slightly amorous, but also somewhat murderous. You may or may not be prompted to haul ass outta there and move your car to a duck free location should this happen again. You may also choose to never let your friend forget this moment and forever immortalize it by writing about it in your blog that everyone at work reads prompting her to label you and your big ass mouth her ex-bestie. Pretend that happened and it'd make for a pretty good story. Until you remembered that one day soon you're going to be the one hooked up to the milking machine. You'd still smile, though.