I have spent the majority of my life not being pregnant. I’m pretty good at it. In almost 39 years, I’ve spent the majority of that time not wanting to be pregnant, for whatever reason. I remember the heady days of my twenties, and not having a boyfriend, yet still waking up in a sweat after fitful dreams of somehow being impregnated. What a nightmare.
It was a relief every time I saw someone else who was pregnant. Thank god it wasn’t me. A woman would have that round belly, and though she might be a complete stranger, I am incredibly self-centered, so I’d project my own feelings onto her. And those feelings were bright red letters etched into my brain, flashing MISTAKE! MISTAKE! MISTAKE!
I’m not saying it was logical. I’m just saying that having a baby for the majority of my life would have been a pretty bad idea, or at least, a major inconvenience. I wouldn’t have known what to do with a baby in the same way I wouldn’t know how to defuse a bomb. I would have been an awesome mom.
So now I’m actually pregnant. I’m the one with the belly. And since this is the first time, and I’ve only really guessed up to now, I can say with some measure of authority that being pregnant really is as trashy as I thought it would be.
For instance, I no longer “walk” around. I waddle. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it’s hard to feel dignified while waddling. Not that I’ve ever been particularly graceful, at least while non-pregnant I felt in control of my faculties. Now, not so much. I waddle around with my fat belly and my fat butt. The shower seems narrower. It’s harder to get in and out of the car. My feet sometimes look like stuffed sausages. I’m sort of clumsy. I imagine this is why people say you look radiant when you are pregnant. Because while honest, saying you look like an overfed water fowl might cause lawsuits.
Every goddamned shirt I own now has a stain on it somewhere. Every goddamned one of them. Some shirts are practically brand new maternity shirts, but they already have a constellation of grease spatters across the boobs, or a big smear of something across the belly. It’s fucking classy.
For some reason, my vision has gotten remarkably worse just in the past few weeks. I use glasses for distance, but they were always sort of optional. Now I can’t see street signs unless I’m on top of them, or I can’t read the numbers on the marquee at Timbers games. More disturbingly, I think my hearing is going too. I can get better glasses for my vision, but for crapping out loud, I don’t want to lose my hearing. I don’t want to be squinting and saying huh? Huh? HUH? for the rest of my life.
Maybe most alarmingly, I’ve gotten wicked dumb in the past few months. Like, scatterbrained, forgetful, ditzy dumb. I hate it. I don’t mind being a goofball on purpose, like for the sake of entertainment or amusement. But I HATE being dumb and not realizing it. I have been late for an appointment, and searched the whole house for my keys. And it was a text from Dave that helped me find them: They are in your purse. And separately, I had a spare set of keys that I lost completely and I am still sort of looking for them, though I think they are at my mechanic, and my mechanic said they don’t have them, but I think they do, but maybe it’s just my pregnant brain and I need to look harder, which I haven’t done yet.
I can’t do simple math like adding the tip on a restaurant check. Or we had the leftovers boxed up to take home, and I forgot them at the restaurant. Or we went way out of our way to go to a store that we hate because I have a gift certificate. And I just wanted to run in really quick to see if we could use it for something. And I got there and we shopped around for fifteen minutes, and I decided on something, and realized I left the goddamned gift certificate at home.
Or I just do regular stupid, dumb things and sometimes not even realize it except that I see Dave smirking at me a little because he thinks it’s cute. I can only be thankful that my husband thinks his ditzy wife is cute. But I really, really, really hate being dumb. I feel like a waddling, shirt stained, trashy, dumb belly on legs, cutting a path of destruction where ever I go. I should call demolition companies in town and see if they need short term help leveling buildings.
Hell, I hope this is short term. I don’t know what I’ll do if I stay this trashy forever. Blame it on my kids, I suppose. I’m going to be an awesome mom.