This time, a pregnancy update, lest Powerball one day find this blog and feel totally neglected.
I’m now thirty-four weeks pregnant.
Despite my round belly, this shocks me. In my mind, I’m eight weeks pregnant, or maybe twelve. Just wrapping my head around the idea of having a second child… not wondering whether the regular Braxton-Hicks contractions mean that Powerball is preparing for an early exit. But here we are, thirty-four weeks since my last period began on January 1st, 2016 in an auspicious start to the new year.
Some thoughts on pregnancy, v 2.0:
- Depending on which app you ask, Powerball is now the size of a butternut squash, a bag of sugar, or a basketball hoop. S/he is, apparently, peeing a pint a day.
- The “fun/cute” facts shared by these apps often disturb me. My fetus has its eyes open? Has fingernails? Is covered in slime? Thanks, internet, for emphasizing how gross the miracle of life actually is.
- I still haven’t announced this pregnancy on social media, which has been an unintentional experiment with hilarious outcomes. People who haven’t seen me in awhile stare openly. Some ask, others awkwardly skirt the topic.
- I’m not sure how anybody could miss the fact that I’m pregnant. There are few beer bellies out there bigger than mine. I’ve gained weight– 15 pounds or so– and nothing fits. I’m regularly shocked by my own reflection.
- My body is good at gestating. Though I have nothing to compare to except other people’s stories, my pregnancies seem to be uncommonly easy. I can eat most foods, I can bike to work, I can stand up without taking a proffered hand. Thanks, body.
- There are a couple of things I can’t do: eat ice cream after 7pm, see my belly button, breathe after walking up my office’s winding staircase.
- While I’m complaining, let’s talk about summer. This summer has been hot. Unusually hot. Steamy, sticky, feels-like-a-moist-bathroom hot. Though I’m only a month more pregnant than I was at this point in 2013, it seems to have totally killed my ability to cope. I get dizzy and nauseous. I am sweaty and red-faced and ungraceful.
- While I lie in bed wondering if I’ll ever be cool again, Powerball flips and turns, raking elbows and/or knees across my belly. S/he is most active between 3am-5am, and I worry about how this will be manifest in sleep habits out of utero.
- Speaking of flipping and turning, Powerball appears to also be a Cirque Du Soleil baby. Breech, then maybe breech, then not breech, now breech again.
- If Powerball stays head up, s/he’ll be delivered via c-section in late September. Otherwise, we’re not sure what will happen. The plans for Powerball’s exit are shaped by uncertainty and a series of what-ifs that deserve their own post.
- However and whenever Powerball comes out, we’re woefully unprepared for their arrival. When one of the e-mail lists that I use to remind myself that I’m pregnant cheerfully announced, “50 days left!” I felt genuine panic. The baby clothes are still in the boxes they’ve been in for the past 2.5 years, the crib is filled with unfolded blankets, suggestions of a packed hospital bag are laughable.
- Today marks six weeks until October 5th.
- I am excited, then impatient, then distracted, then overwhelmed. Then a small limb kicks and I’m excited again.