The case of the gaslit belly.
Maybe the most amusing thing about pregnancy is the myriad of little discomforts and indignities that sneak up on you when you aren’t looking. These usually frighten you in some way, then laugh in your face before heading for the corner to tag the next one into the match.
Case in point: last night I felt uncomfortable in a slightly irritable-painful-but-not-enough-to-really-weird-me-out sort of way, as I seem to more and more often in the evenings, presumably because that’s when my belly reaches maximum stretched-ness for the day. So then I wake up this morning feeling sort of vaguely strange and crampy, and I can’t figure out where it’s coming from, and I lie there in bed for a while imagining all of the terrible things that might be happening, including that I might take a little discomfort too seriously and be laughed at by a large group of medical personnel, which was quickly followed up by the conviction that I must be killing my baby by not freaking out and going in Right.Now.
Then I got up to go get a glass of water. Upon standing, I farted. In fact, I let loose with one of the most impressive examples of the genre that it has ever been my pleasure to host.
Discomfort gone.
That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about.
It’s just so damned interesting living in a body that has altered so much I have no real idea what it’s doing at any given moment. It’s sort of like puberty on steroids. Except that the effects of puberty weren’t offset by being able to feel baby kicking and squirming inside and going all gushy and cute and teary-eyed every time I do.
Thank God. High school was bad enough the way it was.
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