Size does matter

Christ on a bike, it's been nearly 3 weeks since my last post again. I'm not very good at this pregnancy blogging thing. My lack of blogging has a lot to do with being far too lazy and fucking hot to type, plus with all the bad news floating around the IF blogosphere I feel immensely self-centred blabbing about pregnancy-related crap that ultimately doesn't matter.

So what am I going to do now but blog about these things? Yeah, I'm nothing if not consistent. I won't talk about being fat, because I still maintain that my pregnancy weight gain has been in all the right places. However, I will blog about my current resemblance to an aging plowhorse.

In my everyday life, I manage to convince myself that I am not an unwieldly beast, knocking over unsuspecting passersby with my massive girth. I even wore a lovely empire waist summery dress the other day and felt good about my appearance. Sidenote- empire waists are rocking my world. As a boobylicious girl with a non-stick body, I don't get to wear these things when not pregnant. I've always loved empire waists and now I finally get to wear shirts and dresses with them without looking looking pregnant when I'm not, because I am! Anyway, I'm beginning to think me in the empire waist dress is less Gwen Stefani, more Pru Goes to the Big Top. It's not a help when a female co-worker (and noted Child Bore) says: "Is it just me, or do you look bigger today? Oh, it's probably just the dress!" Haha! Of course. Both options are just oh-so flattering, and I thank you for pointing out my tent-like status. I can house small children and rodents underneath it during thunderstorms!

Tuesday night was our first antenatal class, and of the 7 other women, I was only one of two that even looked pregnant. This, despite the fact that the latest due date was early September. Being as the class is run in a small village's little hippy dippy meditation centre (no shoes allowed!!) we had to sit on large cushions positioned on the carpet. For two hours. How wise is this? My fat ass had to lever myself down to the floor utilising the radiator for balance, and getting up...well, let's just say it was a mess of massively awkward proportions. Ass may have been seen by some of the other attendees thanks to my sliding maternity jeans and my preoccupation with getting up without seeing stars rather than focusing on inevitable plumber's butt.

We did a few exercises that involved group work and drawing on big pieces of paper placed on the floor. I sat on my cushioned throne, watching these other lithe creatures crawl all over the floor like they didn't have a uterus the size of a soccer ball and a 3-4 pound baby inside of them. The odd thing is, I'm not terribly out of shape for a woman of nearly 32 weeks. I walk a lot every day, eat lots of fruit and drink a lot of water. Why can I not glide across the floor effortlessly like them? I tried to lean over once to write on the paper and it was as if I'd just carried a 100 pound bag of rocks across the Sahara, it was such an effort. Where are the larger-stomached women and why are they not in my antenatal class? Don't even get me started on the woman who had beautifully (French) pedicured toes and manicured nails. I looked down at my grubby, chipped toenail polished feet in shame, attempting to cover them with the flares of my jeans.

Sitting here now, I've just realised that I have what might be one of the most disgusting exhibits of pregnancy during hot weather - the under boob sweat. Yeah. The boobs, they kind of rest on the top of my stomach, so when it's unbearably hot as it is now, there is a lovely line of sweat appearing on my top between the boobs and stomach. I really hope that hasn't shown itself when I'm at work because, wow...that's a little bit embarrassing.

Along the same lines, and stop reading if you're easily disgusted, is the fact that I think I may have developed a FUPA. Thankfully, said FUPA is not visible when standing up, but when sitting down there is definite FUPA-age. I was trimming the garden the other day when I first noticed it and it was a sad, sad time for me. I thought surely FUPA was an urban myth, or one of those things that just happens to other women, but here it is on my doorstep. FUPA and boob sweat at the same time? I am one hot bitch.

To wrap this up, I'll tell you of a funny conversation I had with my mom the other day:

Her: Well, you'll certainly get used to needles and people poking around down there in this time leading up to having the baby and when you actually have it.

Me: Uh, you are aware that this child was conceived via IVF, right? There is a slight element of vaginal exams and needles involved with that whole procedure.

Her: I know. I'm just saying you'll get even more accostomed to it now.

Me: Yeah...ok. Wait, you do know of the 4 IUIs before the IVF right? The endless cycles of Clomid before that? This cooch has seen more action from a magic wand than 100 lesbian pornos and more needles than even the most dedicated junkie could use in a lifetime.

Her: Pru, I know. I'm just saying...

Oh, they never learn, do they? All those times I've told her about the rigours of infertility treatments, and now all of a sudden it's childbirth that is going to acclimate me to people being all up in my business and poking needles in me. It's all so simple in their world, isn't it?