So, I have officially lost my mind.
I try to dress the part so people avoid me.
No clothes fit me, so the bottom few inches of my huge prego belly hang out constantly. I don’t own maternity shorts, so I wear running shorts, which seriously makes my newly-plump lower half look like freshly churned sausage in a death-grip nylon-spandex blend casing.
I spend just about all day trying to launch my body into active labor, which means I walk around my hood looking like this. Only I don’t just walk. I’m doing lunges, squats – and yes, I’m even jumping. Have you ever seen an over-due pregnant woman jump in clothes that don’t fit her? If you ever need to be jolted into abstinence, I’m certain that burning image would do it.
Fortunately, I have an extremely negative attitude to balance out this comical charade, in that pretty much everything everyone says makes me want to hit them.
Maybe when you are pregnant, you should receive a permit from the government granting you the right to be mildly violent at will. I don’t want to break anyone’s nose or anything – I just want to teach people a lesson with the palm of my hand.
I know that sounds harsh, but really, I think it’s totally logical. People need to know that they shouldn’t ask you when you are due, because due dates mean nothing. They were invented – probably by a MAN – to drive pregnant women crazy.
People need to know that I don’t care how late they went with their babies. Your pregnancy ended – mine is interminable. Stop talking and offer me some of that ice cream sandwich you’re eating.
I recently spoke with a woman who gave birth to her son a week past her due date. She said, “You know, I loved every second of being pregnant. Even going late – I just relished every second. It’s just a blessing to be pregnant in the first place.”
I cannot believe she escaped that conversation with all her teeth.
Listen, chicky babe, I’m all in when it comes to feeling blessed with a healthy pregnancy and baby. However, with a baby on top of my bladder and two-sizes-too-small shorts creating upward pressure, I’m pretty much a ticking time bomb.
Right now, all I want you to do is tell me – with a straight face – that I look amazing and you can’t BELIEVE I still fit in my non-maternity clothes. You aren’t allowed to say anything else.
I really don’t want to tell you that despite contractions all day, every day, no, I don’t feel like I’m close to giving birth.
I really don’t want to tell you that when I start thinking about it, I get so sad because I am so ready to meet this baby and for some reason it just doesn’t want to meet me yet.
What I really want to do is to have this baby. And since I can’t have it yet, I’m going to do whatever the “H” I want until it’s time to push. I’m going to do squats in the waiting room at the chiropractor. I’m going to do jumping jacks dangerously close to the bulldozers and dump trucks that roam the streets in our under-construction neighborhood.
And I’m going to wear ridiculous clothes and threaten violence at will.
So, I’m guess what I’m saying is … just steer clear of me for a bit. I’m just a brightly colored, poorly assembled mosaic. I look like a lot of fun from a distance, but up close, I’m in shambles. A fat, heaving sausage in shambles.