Week 11: Fig
I’m a little late posting… you’re already as big as a plum in reality, but here goes.
You’ve been inside me for eleven weeks now. But enough about you, let’s talk about me! Let’s talk about me, my boobs and poop, in that order.
I’m feeling a bit better these days, thanks. I have more energy and don’t feel quite as nauseas. I’m still having heart flutters that prevent me from being too active, which is boring and disconcerting at the best of times. I’m also REALLY cranky and irritable. It’s super easy to piss me off. So don’t. That would be my best advice.
Just freaking don’t.
My boobs are gigantic. The downside of this is that all my bras have become demi cups. I’m busting out all over, but mostly just over the top. My boobs, in a bra, look like some kind of Jim Henson creation, peering around and making goggly eyes at things.
I have a very expensive Agent Provocateur bra collection, and not a single one of those beauties is able to wrangle these muppets on the front of my chest into submission. I guess it’s time to go shopping. Maybe I’ll do it with your fathers credit card! (Joke). On the upside my gigantic boobs are less painful now. Last week they felt like they were being run over by a semi truck filled with mammogram machines. Now that they hurt less it means I’ve stopped screaming when people hug me.
Now I only yelp.
The even bigger upside to giganta-boobs is that I look HOT. I’ve gone all Jessica Rabbit and I love it. I’m aware that this hotness is short-lived, and that after you are born my breasts will die a slow and horrible death. What is clear is that I have to make the most of this big boobs/flat belly combo now. And that’s why, this past weekend, I took you and my boobs to a sexy costume party at Harry Houdini’s old mansion in Hollywood. The four of us had a wonderful time!
It was your first proper Hollywood party. I had to sneak you in (you weren’t on the list) but we had a blast. It took me years to get inside the gates of that place and explore the mysterious terraces and ornate gardens, and you got to do it when you are the size of a fig. That’s my girl! Hashtag proud.
This wasn’t your first party, however. The other day at a rooftop shindig lots of people were rubbing my belly and telling me I was showing. I wasn’t. I was just really, really constipated. You see, the amount of food and water I’m ingesting is much greater than the amount coming out. I don’t think you’re a fig, I think you’re a sponge. Pooping has become an ordeal. No one tells you this when they romanticize pregnancy and talk about the joys of motherhood. I poop tiny little poops ten times a day and it’s an effort.
These days, when I finally do a poop, I feel like doing a celebratory sprint through the house like my cat does after she’s used the litter box. Woohoo! Fucking YEAH! I almost want to take pictures and send them to people with a proud “Look what I made!” But I don’t.
Poop. Better out than in.
Or, as my old man used to say “Better a vacant house than a bad tenant”.
Wiser words were never spoken.
This week I had genetic testing to see if you are healthy. They did blood tests for 100 different diseases, and I got to watch you sleeping in my belly via the ultrasound. The nurse tried for almost an hour to get measurements of you but you refused to move into a better position. She kept asking me to cough to wake you up and convince you to shift around. Finally I used my Vulcan mind-meld trick on you and you did a funny little dance, waved at us, and rolled over. You may have inherited your fathers rhythm, sorry! We shall enroll you in dance classes immediately, I promise.
Tomorrow you will become a Plum. That will be the last week of our first trimester together. This means you are a bit safer inside me, and more likely to hang around for the next 6 months. You’re in the middle of a three-week growth spurt that will double your size. I had growing pains when I was a kid and I wouldn’t wish them on anyone. You hang in there, kiddo.