Without further adieu, here is the last week in my very own, narcissistic, pregnancy related news:
As if I haven’t suffered enough pregnancy related indignities – (I barely told you about the DIAPER RASH that enveloped my boobs basically forever) – on this day I had to endure another atrocity:
hemorrhoids that-which-shall-not-be-named. Now. I try to be real on this blog. Like, real real. But a
long time ago, when I was young and naïve and thought of when I would have kids and never if, after reading a particularly “compelling” and “eye opening” and
“utterly disgusting” first person account of pregnancy article in that
venerable, hard hitting journalistic masterpiece, SELF magazine, I made a
profound and steadfast decision: when
I got pregnant, I would do so without getting hemorrhoids that-which-shall-not-be-named. Because, honestly, who needs that?
NOT THIS GIRL. Needless to say, I was very disappointed in my body and it’s
impaired decision making stick-to-it-tive-ness. Yes, friends, Thursday was a
But instead of perseverating, I spent the next several hours determined to blow my entire paycheck on all-the-pretty-baby-clothes (like these hipster threads and these, some of which C says are too gender-neutralizing-burlap-sack but which i say are gimme-those-overalls!).
Oh, Friday. You were a good day. We had dinner (smitten kitchen charred corn crepes with grilled veggies, some fish that C caught, fresh guacamole and mango salsa, none of which I took pictures of because HUNGRY) with friends (only one of whom affectionately inquired about the alien growing in my belly). The weather was perfect, the food was fresh and for the first time in a long time, I really just wanted a beer. *rubs
beer belly baby belly*
With C on call at the hospital, I visited a friend and her 3 month old son. While pleasantly mesmerized by his baby fingernails and dissipating male pattern baldness, I was woken from my reverie and spontaneously reminded by my dear friend that – wait for it – baby boys have "huge balls." *Duly noted*. Also, both our sons will probably go into therapy because their mothers had such a conversation.
Moving right along. I spent the afternoon determined to find not-ill-fitting professional maternity pants and to consume frozen yogurt – but not in that order and the latter was really just as a vehicle for unrestrained candy consumption. BECAUSE I CAN.
C and I venture forth into baby-store-landia where we encounter various breeds of expectant parents. Brutish dads (“SHE (referring to his wife) WILL BE WALKING EVERYWHERE. SHE WILL NEED THIS STROLLER!”), aggressive moms (one friendly mother-to-be literally yanked a stroller out of my hands and shoved me aside, such was her passion for parenthood), the parents weighed down by incomprehensible data they aggregated from consumer reports magazine (seriously, how is that even still a thing that anyone but my father uses?). We didn’t buy anything but we did amuse ourselves by placing stuffed alligators in Ergo carriers and throwing around faux baby sacks from stroller to stroller. Because, you know, MATURE ADULTS TOTALLY READY TO PARENT.
It’s Monday morning and the fetus-child is unhappy to be in court by 8 am. I know because while I wait for my client’s case to be called, he (baby, not client) is pummeling me from the inside. At which point I have this moment like um, hey, can everyone see what’s happening here? Or is that just me? MMMkay.
Late in the day – when I’m looking especially round and glowing with pregnancy bloated-ness – a grizzly middle aged man at a furniture store greeted me with thickly accented eastern European English, "a blessing is coming!" (Mark this as the first time a stranger has pointed out that I am pregnant. So, umm…everybody wins?).
Ohhai, Tuesday. What the hell is that? OH RIGHT. NAUSEA. Because, you know, I was getting used to not keeping a Ziploc of cheerios on my bedside table to ward off the early morning queasiness.
Today I think serious thoughts about work life balance and my role as lawyer-mother (which is not to be confused with earth-mother). Being a walking uterus, there’s no downplaying that like, you know, other shit is going on in my life. I have some really deep thoughts that are presently escaping me. Mostly I read this and the take away is something like, this would be more compelling if the author wasn’t a professor at Harvard and also, balance! (Okay, truthfully, I have a lot of feelings on this. But I’ll save them for not-a-week-in-review-shortcut-of-a-post, pleaseandthankyou).
Oh Wednesday, I thought you’d never come. Wednesday is when I prove to you guys that I actually do have a bump (see below). And that I put it under a black dress pretty much on the regular.
Also: YOGA! Which was especially super tonight because (1) the woman to my right was “41 week and a few days pregnant”; (2) someone always offers Tums; and (3) my teacher instructed us to “allow the flower to open at the base of your pelvic floor!”
So there you have it. What about you guys, how was your week?
(Has anyone else noticed that I waffled violently between using the past and present tense throughout this post? I know, my grammar is appalling. As is my decision-making ability, apparently.)
 I know what you’re thinking. But its just Wednesday. Just go with it, okay?
 By which I mean that I swear my entire life isn’t consumed by baby. For example, this exciting tour through my uterus does not include such storied events as the many episodes of Orange is the New Black which I have consumed in the last week or the totally-working! record player that our neighbors threw away and we now have on display in our living room and many other REALLY EXCITING PURSUITS.
 And by that I mean basically the same ones all pregnant ladies suffer – heartburn, having to pee all the time, hormones!, nausea, having to pee all the time, erratic sleeping habits, mostly related to having to pee all the time, etc. – except that mine included shingles so I win. (Also, on a related note, I actually really don’t mind all this <motions to aforementioned symptoms but mostly to the peeing, oh the everloving peeing!>. Being pregnant feels… good, even?)
 Because that is the official diagnosis. And the cure?
bell! Wear cotton bras, or better yet no bras (because, you know,
nothing screams working, professional like that…),
apply anti-fungal cream, rinse and repeat. I could not make this stuff up.
Clearly the universe is PREPARING ME. It’s all so meta.
 Seriously, someone please filter me. I cannot help myself.
 I did not do this as instructed because I was pretty sure that I would just pee myself. Also, I don’t listen to direction very well.