I'm going to have a baby in about 10 weeks (it's all week-talk when you're pregnant), which means that I'm almost there on this 40-week odyssey. I'm seven and a half months pregnant (nobody ever tells you that you're really pregnant until you hit 10 months).
I'm thrilled about the prospect of having a kid: It's not something that I've fantasized about since I was a kid myself, but in the past few years, particularly when I met and married my husband, the urge grew. And with that urge, a sizable amount of anxiety that maybe it wouldn't be possible. I have many friends who are in the throes of getting medical intervention to get pregnant -- and an equal number of friends who tried for more than a year before it miraculously happened. Rob and I got lucky.
Maybe it's the fact that it happened without involving too many ovulation tracking devices, but I feel guilty about the fact that I hate being pregnant. I love feeling the little guy kick, but my burgeoning butt, expanding thighs and disappearing waistline fill me with dismay.
I'm not body-dysmorphic, but I am body-conscious, and so when I stand in front of the mirror and try to get dressed in the morning, I'm completely at a loss. I have a classic '50s body, complete with an hourglass shape, which I normally accentuate with any number of skinny belts, tailored tops, and sharply cut blazers. In short, it's the only way I know how to dress, since I learned at a young age in the fashion closet at Lucky magazine, that every woman is best served by playing up what she's got. Now, I more accurately resemble a tree: It's a straight shot from my armpit to my knees.
They say that when it comes to maternity style, there are two camps. You can go frumpy or you can go figure-revealing. I can do the former: My husband's swathes of J.Crew buttondowns and abandoned band t-shirts are perfect for hiding everything that's happening. And with that level of stealth, they bring the added privilege of making me look about 20 pounds thicker. I know I'm supposed to take the figure-flattering route with glee, to play up my bump and direct all eyes to the fact that yes, I'm pregnant, but I can't bring myself to do it. Is it strange that I don't want people to look at my fecund body and pass any judgments at all? Even: "Oh, that girl is knocked up." I'm so uncomfortable with my new shape, that I don't want anyone else to see it either. I would, quite frankly, prefer that random strangers at the mall think I just need to go on a diet.