Pregnancy, like any good project, should be given milestones to celebrate because let’s face it – there are rather boring bits in between. Once an avid reader of Up The Duff (the book which inspired the domain name of this blog, BTW), I now find myself reading older chapters to play catch up. Methinks perhaps this pregnancy is rather cruisy thus far. Awesome.
But anyhoo – Week 22! Lovely mini-milestone after The One About The Sex (gender, not nookie). Like textbook, Blobette did away with the fluttering and got into some serious thumping. Or head-butting. I’m not quite sure. But since Week 21 day 4, she’s been charging around the Velly Belly, and this momma is pleased.
She’s still a skooncher – occasionally I’d find her trying to burrow her way into my left thigh or something – but she’s definitely bigger now. We have a growth spurt. For the first time, I’m feeling the stretch and getting rather rotund in the middle. I walked into the lift at work this week, and everyone in it took a mental (or not so mental) half-step back. Might have also been the work of my new white maternity shirt that made me look like I was wearing a marquee. Note to self – shirts look great for work, but they also tend to hang off the edge of your belly so now you have a gentle draft every time you run for the bus. SO did not know that till Week 22.
Speaking of buses – breakthrough! Kindly older Chinese businessman gave up his seat for me in the bus, and I sank gratefully into it and was sure to give him a pretty smile. My whinge about Bus Men and the Seat that’s now Rightfully Mine had sparked quite a few offline conversations about chivalry, feminism, and how men feel that they’re damned if they do and don’t. And then I learnt about this strange new breed of pregnant women who glare at gentlemen when the latter gallantly offer their seats. They then go on to hiss at the poor men, something about “being able to take care of themselves, thankyouverymuch”.
Talk about being terribly ungracious. No wonder the men are bumfuzzled and decide never to make eye contact with spawning women in public transport. Look ladies – get over yourselves. Feminism is all well and good, but it takes courage for a man to approach any strange pregnant woman – unless you’re in IT. (More on that very soon.) Don’t get your granny panties in a knot over such a kind gesture. It’s not about I-Tarzan-You-Jane, it’s just human decency. Also, you’re bloody ruining it for the rest of us.
Had another belly-grab yesterday, but this one was a milestone because it was a HE. Think he completely forgot himself in all his excitement about bumping into me after we hadn’t seen each other for ages, only to realise that I was getting rather portly in the mid-section. It was rather bemusing, but I got over it once he started telling me all about girls being more expensive than boys “because of all the pleats and sequins”.
“Don’t know about the sequins…” I replied, wrinkling my nose at the thought a girly-girl bedroom strewn with ridiculously fairy-princessy garments in 27 shades of pink.
“Oh, it’ll happen,” he nodded sagely. “You’ll see.”
Had a killer cramp last night that lasted from the time Voldemort got away and the Ministry arrived, till after the credits. Just wave after wave of excruciating agony. I had tears forming at the corner of my eyes, and if I hadn’t been writhing on the couch, I would have done a Homer:
In a sense, it was a good test bed for Tony and his partner support skills (pretty good, once I could find the breath in between yowling to give instructions). It was also an opportunity to practise some Yoga breathing and pain management – which accomplished diddly-squat last night, but I’m still learning. I hear from many preggers that it goes downhill from here – the cramps really become a part of your day. God’s way of raising the threshold for pain, I suppose.