Sometimes it’s the moments you least expect that let you know that yes, you really are, pregnant.
It’s not that I wake up at least 2-3 times a night to pee; it’s not that I now lean forward while peeing, with my torso roughly parallel to the tile floor, tilting my uterus to extract every last drop and per the
musical medical wizardry
of my doctor husband, sing the alphabet before I get up off the toilet JUST TO MAKE SURE THERE’S NO MORE PEE;
it’s not that my gums bled for a week and a half every time I lightly brushed my
ever-loving-extra-sensitive-so-much-blood-rushing-to-every-vessel! teeth; it’s not that I could eat pad
thai noodles or vegetarian sushi all day every day and, still, have only a mild
and fleeting interest in chocolate; it’s not that my boobs are suddenly like ohhai!-we’re-no-longer-just-on-the-cusp-of-a-measly-b-cup-please-and-thank-you; it’s not that I’m
in full on, beyond cliché, nauseatingly domestic nesting mode, transparently ogling the strollers of the
neighborhood moms and practically giddy over a mint condition “arm’s reach
co-sleeper” we scored for forty bucks at a yard sale; it’s not that I cried
snotty, messy, sobs over my granola just one minute in to the latest StoryCorps and scrambled to turn off the radio while C, alternately
flabbergasted and amused, looked on, mouth agape; it’s not that I returned to pre-natal yoga,
where a series of wall-sits were compared to “each minute of a contraction!” or
that during these wall sits our instructor, who clutches her vagina when
demonstrating something involving the pelvic floor, allowed us to scream out in
pain, as though in labor, and the woman two down from me took her word for it
and belted out, in between some kind of part orgasm/part shriek, kinky
mother fucker son of a bitch!; it’s not that I got pregnancy-shingles
and have now been blessed with a new mystery what’s-the-word-I’m-looking-for?-oh-right-SEXY rash that seems to
be consuming my left boob; it’s not that I heard the beating heart, with my own two ears, or saw a giant fetus head,
with my own two eyes; and it's certainly not that I'm complaining about any of this because, hello-this-was-the-goal.
No. It’s not any of these things.
There is just one thing that strikes me as the real moment when I felt like, aww shucks, I really am pregnant. It was earlier this week, when it suddenly came over me that I am
carrying a human
fetus truly, deeply, sincerely and
genuinely: COMPLETELY UNINTERESTED IN WEARING PANTS.
Oh sure, they all still kinda, sorta fit (ish). The bump is definitely, happening, emerging, present. But also intermittently concealable depending on the time of day and the amount of pad thai I’ve consumed in the last 24 hours. And sure, there’s one pair of stretchy black umm-could-these-possibly-pass-as-everyday-pants-in-a-professional-environment? J.Crew pajama pants that I could live in. But otherwise, I am just, well, 100% not interested. In fact, it’s more than disinterest – it’s an all consuming revulsion. And I’d like to say that it’s no big deal. That it’s summer. That I’ll just wear adorable, well fitting, pregnancy chic sundresses for the next five months. But we need to be honest with ourselves. We all know what’s coming: MUUMUU!
 There’s always more. THERE IS ALWAYS MORE EFFING URINE.
Which I secretly kind of love.
 Yeah. That’s definitely hyphenated.
 I know, I know, you’re on the edge of your seats. More soon.
 Vast Waistband Salesman: “Many of our clients find pants confining, so we offer a range of alternatives for the ample gentleman: ponchos, muumuus, capes, jumpsuits, unisheets, muslin body rolls, academic and judicial robes.”
Homer Simpson: “I don’t want to look like a weirdo. I’ll just go with a muumuu.”