Since we rearranged the house to accommodate the oncoming arrival of the little feller, we lost the use of our one full-length mirror which is now tucked behind a dresser. Now the only time I catch a glimpse of my new mumsy form is in windows, photos, or (if truly motivated and feeling graceful) standing on our toilet lid. This has made the shock of my size less alarming from moment to moment since I'm never fully aware of the changes that are taking place from the outside, and only have the perspective of looking down, conveniently leaving a lot of gaps in the mind's eye. This way, I can constantly trick myself into believing that I'm one of those petite pregnant women who looks exactly the same except for a delicate little rise under her shirt and a slightly larger rack.
However, every now and then one must take inventory. I haven't taken a good look at the bod in a while and after wallowing like a manatee in the bath last night, I decided to take a little peek at the progress, now officially 30 weeks in. So after asking my husband to look for stretch marks (none yet), I hauled my butt up on the toilet seat to check the view from up there.
My stomach is gigantic. There's just no other way to say it. I have gained, as of yesterday, 20 pounds since this adventure began, and it's all in my stomach (although just recently I think the thighs have taken a hit, too). It's the size of pretty substantial seedless watermelon, and I've still got ten weeks to go. It's taut and round and utterly overwhelms my tiny frame. I look funny as hell, but I guess one expects that from growing a human.
Moving on in the inventory, I have what was once called "alabaster" or in more modern-day colloquy, "fish-belly white" skin. I am what one might literally call "thin-skinned:" I turn purple in winter, I can't tan, and my face powder (if I wore it) would be one shade up from "goth."
So imagine my surprise when I gazed at my once adorably small boobs to find that they look like they've been re-animated in a horror flick. They're only moderately larger, but the nipples are much darker (and have a new life of their own) and my boobs are covered in blue veins, racing like the LA freeway system over a rather large surface area.
I'm good with the tummy. I expected the tummy. I did not bargain for Frankenboobs. I was quite shocked to discover that in my new-found lack of shame wandering around the house naked because I can't breathe in any of my bras and clothes anymore that my husband was looking at the boobs from Frankenhooker.
I think I won't be standing on the john lid for quite a while and instead go back to the idealized vision of pregnant-me. At lease until the curiosity overtakes me again.