Pregnant Phat

I knew it would happen at some point during the pregnancy: I’m starting to feel fat.  Not fat all over just yet, fat as if I’m wearing a ‘pregnancy suit’.  My stomach comes right out from under my breasts, it creases when I sit down (is it supposed to do that?).  I had a few hours the other night where I obsessed over every part of me that had changed.  I was laying on the couch with my feet over Curtis’ lap as I bemoaned my new shape.

“Will you still love me if I never again fit into my wedding dress?”  I ask.  “Of course I will,” he replies with the utmost sincerity.  I don’t ever expect him to say “No”, but it’s the sentiment I’m craving.  It’s just harmless ego stroking and he knows that.   With a giddy smile he’ll tell me how much he loves my figure.  I’m beginning to think that for him the most traumatic part of parenthood will be coming to accept that he has to share my breasts with someone else.  The way he looks at them you’d think he’d won the lottery every time I undress for bed.  I think it’s payback for all the times I wished for a bigger chest.  All the requests got caught somewhere and then came in at the same time.


There’s a part of pregnancy very few people discuss; the obscenely swollen genitalia.  Few books or moms will go into detail about how uncomfortable it can be, or even its very existance, and I wish I’d had a bit more warning.  

Since we’d been passing back and forth a light “I’m fat”, “You’re not fat” for about 10 minutes, I threw that one in.   “Do you still love me even though I have a fat vagina?”  “Excuse me?”  “I said, will you still-”  “I heard what you said.  Just… what?”  He looked at me, I looked at him.  He was trying to figure out if I was serious or not.  He tried to smile, but when I didn’t smile back at him he got confused.  “You don’t have a fat vagina,” he said.  It sounded more like a question.   “It’s terribly overweight,” I answered, to let him know I was only half-serious.   “I don’t remember it being fat, I’ll have to see…”  “No you can’t see!”

A conversation on ‘fat’ versus ‘phat’ ensued, where we eventually agreed to disagree on the existance of overweight genitals.    Sometimes I’m shocked at the kind of raunchy conversations you can have so casually once you’re married.  

Our one-year anniversary is seven days before my due date.  I’m a little scared at the prospect of dressing up pretty and going out to dinner, 39 weeks pregnant, and honestly believing him when he says, “You’re just as beautiful as the day I met you”.  I wouldn’t know whether to be flattered that he thinks I’m still thin, or offended that he thought I was always this big (or, the taboo third option; admitting you’re hormonal and taking it as a compliment either way).

I’m not quite to mammoth proportions yet.  I can still see my feet.  Well, kind of…  

~:) Babs

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