Pregnancy is a beautiful thing. There is glowing involved. Unless of course you happen to be me. I should like at this time to expound upon the ways in which my body has revolted. Or, more accurately, has become revolting. If you're a "shame on you, you should feel blessed by every discomfort" kind of person you may not want to read further because it'll just annoy you.
Starting from the top. It's a commonly known fact that a pregnant woman's hair gets thicker. This is because older hair doesn't fall out, but new hair is still generated. However, several years ago my hair decided to stop growing. So my hair is essentially only accumulating more hair that refuses to grow, rather than growing longer, creating a Jew-fro appearance about which I can do nothing because I do not have the stamina to stand at the sink for an hour in an attempt to tame it with product and appliances. Nor can I afford losing that extra hour of sleep, because then I would only get 11 hours a night.
On the bright side our drains aren't backing up anymore from the accumulation of my DNA.
I no longer have any differentiation between my neck and my chin. It all just sort of flows out of my cheeks, Jabba-the-Hut-like. (Note: I can say this about myself but if you call me Jabba you will lose a testicle, as one unfortunate and not very bright friend has already learned.)
Need I expound on the size of my chest? It has become udderly (misspelling intended) ridiculous. I don't even know if anybody makes a bra big enough for these things. When forced to wear one, a requirement which I am relaxing further and further as I make it my primary goal in life to wear no clothing that involves bands, hooks or restrictive elastic, the best I can do is find an approximate size. And I am constantly losing things in my cleavage. Not just crumbs, but the entire muffin. Some people may view this as a handy place to store keys and loose change, particularly since most maternity pants do not have pockets (perhaps they assume you don't need them given your abundant cleavage?) but that is uncomfortable.
The flab on my underarms stops waving hello about five minutes after the rest of my arm does.
My belly is actually quite attractive, I have to say, and I take full credit for this. I attribute the lack of any new stretch marks to the fact that my body is already used to expanding with weight gain and then contracting through dieting on a fairly regular basis, so a giant belly is one thing for which I have been preparing and training for decades. Rather than new stretch marks I am just digging deeper grooves into the pre-existing ones.
I won't go into my ass. I may never find my way back out again.
I think I've covered my painfully unhinging hips, which by now I could probably fully detach from the rest of my body without too much effort if I so chose. Despite the pain, I choose not. I'm fairly certain they are necessary evils.
My thighs are two barrels atop my knees. I give new meaning to the term "cottage cheese thighs." They hang over my chair, halfway to the floor. If I were allowed to fly, Southwest airlines would make me buy not two but three seats - one for me, one for each of my thighs. I would request for them the special kosher meal, just because one has to get one's jollies where one can when one's thighs are fucking monstrous.
My ankles are reminiscent of the Pillsbury Dough Boy's. It is fun to see if I can sink my finger in all the way up to the first knuckle.
My feet... I don't know. Maybe someone else can fill you in on those. The other day I discovered I can officially no longer tie my own shoes and I had to ask my husband for help. As an aside, I also can no longer vacuum, which is another task my husband has had to take over, but you won't hear me bitching about that one.
My immune system is shot. I've had a sinus infection for 3 weeks or seventeen years, I'm not sure which. People already part like the Red Sea when they see a big pregnant belly coming at them, as if pregnancy were contagious. Although I think with men (particularly those without children) it's more that they become struck with a confused Madonna worship. As if they are simultaneously overwhelmed by the creation of life and at the same time horribly embarrassed because they now know for a fact you've had sex at least once. They avert their eyes and give you a wider-than-necessary birth. (Haha, birth) But add to that the coughing, hacking, sneezing, nose-blowing delight of a year-long cold that WILL NOT DIE and you pretty much find yourself alone most of the time.
I require twelve hours of sleep per day and still can't focus properly on my work. I have perfected the dumb stare. I grunt when I get up, sit down, bend, walk, climb stairs, think hard or breathe. My throat makes funny bubbly noises that are beyond my control and when I am hungry I make this loud, also uncontrollable, hiccup sound, almost always in a very small, very crowded space such as the elevator at work. Think loud, alarmed parrot when trying to imagine this sound in your head. I sweat from just sitting. I cry at everything, including this blog. I forget to put on socks and can't understand why my feet are so cold.
All that being said... I wouldn't trade any of it. I could be sobbing my eyes out (no, no reason) but one kick from this baby girl and I'm grinning like a fool. She got hiccups yesterday for ten minutes and I was so delighted by this clear demonstration of talent and genius that I was high for hours.
Did I mention the mood swings?
