You dirty, dirty minded children.
As you may know, the eldest of our brood and I just got back from a little 10 day Southern excursion to see friends and family in Louisiana and StL. What's that you say? Why did I travel to two ridiculously, sweltering and humid locales at 34 weeks pregnant? Well, that is a very good question and, yes, I learned my lesson.
So, before we left, my hands and feet started to swell something fierce. I wake up in the morning and immediately raise both arms and put my hands on the headboard to see if the swelling will go down enough to be able to bend my fingers without the painful cracking that is the sausage casing breaking with every subtle movement. I find myself resting my arms on Will's head (which you can imagine how much he loves and the eye-rolls this induces) when we're in line or he just happens to be in arms reach, just to elevate these elephant trunks as often as possible. Whenever you are afflicted with what we've deemed 'the big, ugly man hands from hell thanks to the monster in the water balloon house,' I caution you from A)flying (instant dehydration...you think it would help, but no dice) or B)flying to two of the most humid places in the lower 48 if you must travel...at 34 weeks gestation...because you're either an idiot or a glutton for punishment. Jury is still out on that one. Being away from home, you eat more non-home cooked meals...read salt-laden, water retaining bombs. This especially happens in the South and in Saint Louis which are not exactly winning any awards for 'healthiest place to live' (Go MSP!). You know you're carrying about 10 lbs of extra water around when even your 2 sizes too big fake wedding ring gets too tight. Not cool, in all senses of the world.
This sudden attack of man hands 'forced' me to trade my wedding ring for my 'fling (fake bling) ring' so that I could avoid the inevitable disapproving and sorrowful looks of nosy-ass passerbys who see the belly and immediately search the hand for a ring. This really happens...like, a lot. The ring I chose to replace my beloveds is one of my Grandma's modest old costume pieces (because everyone's grandma has ANY costume jewelry that could ever be described as modest) that is about...oh, I don't know... a 5 carat pear cut sparkler. Now, therein lies the problem. I never would have picked this gaudy doorknocker that belongs on the anorexic finger of a hollywood starlet...but, I like it...a lot. I didn't even try anything like this on when were were ring shopping and maybe it wouldn't even look good on my normally not-so-sausage-like fingers, but I REALLY like it. My girls and I have pondered the actual cost of replacing the fakerooni with the real thing and have even gone so far to design it on line, but convincing the man is a whole different ballgame...like the Yankees vs the Royals (i.e. a beat down). I wonder if he'd notice if I just kept wearing 'my precious' after the baby is out and the swelling recedes? I have a feeling it might be 'lost' in the delivery process and I'll have to continue to pine away and wait for my tenth anniversary (pretty please, oh best hubby of mine xoxo). In all seriousness, I pretty much know this is a lost cause, so I'll just continue to enjoy it for the next few weeks til the monkey in the water balloon makes his appearance. Besides, as one friend put it, 'I wouldn't be friends with you if your ring really looked like that' and another said, 'Dude, since neither one of us is Angelina Jolie, we don't even know anyone who could wear that ring and not look like a re-tard.' Fine, haters. I'll 'settle' with my gorgeous actual ring o'betrothal just as soon as I can shove it on my engorged little finger. I do have to admit that the looks the ring got when we were out at the grocery store, all fat and in sweat pants and a pony tail were pretty humorous. We're talking full-on double takes, first at the ring, then at my big butt, and I'd smile and move on, leaving them to ponder what I was so good at to deserve my little iceberg.
The second thing that started to happen during our little 'jaunt of husband abandonment' (wonder who came up with that one), was the joy of waking up every morning with ever increasing PITA. That's right, pain in the ass. It started insidiously (which I can't even type without thinking of Darth Sidious and I don't even dig Star Wars), but each morning it picked up a little more and now, two weeks into it, pretty much sucks. At first, it was like, 'Man, what did I do last night (not like that, dirty, dirty minds)' but now, without any inciting events, it continues to worsen to the point where I get up and hobble to the bathroom (for the 10th time since going to bed) and you'd think I just got back from a 2 day equestrian adventure the way I have to mozy/swagger. I was in denial about the correlation of the pain to the size of my expanding derriere, but the fact that my 'big girl undies' are now getting a little snug has pretty much confirmed that my hips, they are a spreading.
Now, given my lineage of voluptuous women with sizable rumps, I have a feeling this is a permanent change, which might not be so bad. Having had the body of a 12 year old boy for most of my life, I think I could learn to appreciate a more womanly figure...as long as I get to keep the top that matches the bottom. I timidly shared this news with the man only to hear a little song entitled, 'Koey's got a big ole' butt, oh yeah' which leads me to believe that he's okay with the changes or at least has plans to help me fix them later. I have to say, though, when you're tipping the scale at 175, a little acceptance in the form of humor and agreeing to turn the lights off anytime you're naked, goes a long way. And hey, I did say that whatever happens to my body during this crazyiness is fine by me as long as he's getting everything he needs to make a safe and healthy entrance into this world, even if that means enlarging his escape route to make him more comfortable. I just didn't really think that pushing a grapefruit through a kiwi would involve me needing to buy all new pants and under garments in sizes I've never before searched for. Oh well. Booty dance, here I come and I've got some junk in the trunk to work like never before. Wait, are moms allowed to do the booty dance?
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