We’ve entered into the homestretch of this pregnancy triathlon – and with 77 days left on the burner, I’m ready to award my husband with the Medal of Honor for the incessant foot rubs (can’t even call them feet – they’re summer sausages) and the erratic, constant food runs (Japanese, no…Olive Garden, no…chocolate milk). Not even Caitlyn Jenner could measure up (cue all of 2015’s hypersensitive naysayers) to my husband’s courage for enduring the mood swings (NCIS shouldn’t make you cry) and the pity parties for all things, big (waistline) and small (teenage boy acne, the occasional skin tag and bouts of heart burn ). Side show: We went to Dicks over the weekend for yoga pants – and halfway through my dressing room tantrum (they don’t make pants for a bowling pin figure), joggers and roomy sweatpants began magically appearing under the dressing room door. For any fans of Modern Family, the relief is analogous to the episode when Jay buys Gloria the Minnie Mouse slippers from the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique after a day in heels at Disney Land. We left the store with several pairs.
Moral of the story? Pregnancy is not a season for thigh-gaps, but rather, bye-gaps. And that’s okay. Tye referred to me as “the Mother Ship” the other day and that put this transition in proper perspective. I’m hosting an eggplant for 77 more days, who is going to triple in size (sorry, ribs). If my new trendy joggers can accommodate the change, then so can I.
Disclaimer: This is not a ‘fishing for sympathy’ post intended to generate slighted comments from the “babies are a blessing” crew. I realize we are enormously blessed with this little gal and am thrilled for her early March arrival. But it’s okay to be honest about the weird, fugly, temporary changes that accompany this life chapter. I’d offer chill pills for the masses, but those are on my ‘no-medications’ list.