I Like the Way You Move

Except, you know, not always. A few times a day to let me know you’re digging your bachelor pad is good. The little kicks that let me know I’m eating something you like are totally okay. The Tasmanian devil tornadoes are not necessary.

Slooooowww dowwwwn. Enjoy your bubble time and the safety of your inner world. Fighting to get out is not helping either of us. You’re not fully baked and I am not the slightest bit prepared.

And for the love of all things, in the meantime, stop punching my duodenum.

I am constantly terrified to look down. I can sometimes see you pop and lock out of the corner of my eye and it seriously disturbs me. I have taken to wearing scarves to cover it up and have come to terms with the fact that my shoes are probably mismatched half the time. BECAUSE I AM AFRAID OF LOOKING DOWN AND SEEING YOUR ARM WAVE FROM MY BELLY BUTTON. My stomach should not look like it has a mind of it’s own. Even though I guess it sort of does at this point.

At night, I am afraid to lift the covers, lest I see a spotlight, red carpet, velvet ropes and a meathead with a clipboard. It certainly feels like you sent out an e-vite to all of your underground fetal friends to come have a rave in my uterus. I hope you’re saving the money you’re making on cover charge, because you owe me. And you better be cleaning up all the red Solo cups. I don’t want to try and explain THAT to my OB upon delivery.

And the kick to the lungs last week that knocked the wind outta me? Could have slept better without that little interruption.

Not to mention, did you sprout like six additional limbs since the January ultrasound? Because I cannot figure out how you can be in 19 places at once, jabbing every square inch at the same time with what feels like a massive amount of appendages.

And that weird scrape you did from left to right the other day? Probably with creepy finger? Yeah, you can just knock that move the %^&# off. The sensation of it was bad enough, but then I pictured you writing out REDRUM and well, now you’re really freaking me the %$@^ out.

A PEEK INSIDE MY UTERUS (artist rendition)

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Let’s Have a Serious Moment Here

Dear #$&$! Baby.

If you are baby all grown up, I suggest you stop reading now, lest you taint your vision of your saintly and awesome mother.

Is it gone? GOOD. Let’s continue.

I never said I was into the whole “motherhood” thing. I’ve never been that way. The only non-Barbie doll I ever remember having was a cabbage patch doll named Becky Freckidela* that I am pretty sure molded into the chair I placed her in after I was five. As it states on my About Me page, I haven’t changed a diaper except for on aforementioned Becky Freckidela during a babysitting class when I was nine and had to pry her from the aforementioned chair. So no, being a mom was never really up my alley. I figured it would happen, but I would like their toys more than them. Hot damn, do I love toys.

I am beginning to be afraid that’s actually what’s going to happen.

When I would grimace or dry-heave at the mention of being a mom, I would always hear “but you’ll love it when it’s yours!” And I would laugh. And shrug. And say maybe. Now I am questioning the validity of my first reaction.

It sort of creeps me out when I hear moms-to-be gush and go crazy for their fetus. That they knew it in their hearts when it happened. That they fell in love with it after hearing its heartbeat or seeing it during the ultrasound. Well. I’ve heard the heartbeat. I’ve seen it. Twice. And I’m not gushing about it. It’s just a fetus, right?? It’s a little blob that moves around that sort of looks like it has human features that is apparently enjoying making a waterbed out of me.

I’m still not totally convinced that this isn’t an elaborate prank and the ultrasound tech is in on it and plays someone else’s recorded video while she rubs warm goo on my cheese belly for like, no reason.

Big A asked me a while ago when I was going to stop the charade of not being excited. And I felt bad enough that I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell him the truth – it isn’t really a charade. I suppose a bit of it is, due to my sarcastic attitude. But really, none of it has been an act or for show. A big part of me wants to jump up and down and shove sonograms in people’s faces and go all gaga nutso over MY little alien fetus but that is what truly feels fake.

I have my excited moments. And it wouldn’t be normal if I wasn’t terrified at the future post-June and onwards. But can I say I love it? No, not yet. Most of the time I don’t even know it’s THERE. I keep waiting for that holyshitohmygod moment. Fifteen weeks and still waiting.

Maybe it’ll be finding out the sex or feeling it move for the first time that will send me over the HOLY SHIT I LOVE A BABY edge. Hopefully it will happen at some point, otherwise I will feel pretty bad for this crazy hamster.

*My brothers named her after a German-esque hamburger dish that my mom makes. The name stuck. Awesome.

What Morning Sickness?

Dear @#%! Baby.

Thank you for being nice to me thus far. But could you at least make your presence known a wee little bit? So far, aside from the tests, you have been too cooperative. I am starting to think the world is playing a trick on me. Vomit? Nope. Nausea? Only when I eat too much so that’s normal. Headaches? Not any worse than usual. Heartburn? Well, I’ve always had heartburn so I’m not sure. Tired? I can never get enough sleep. I heart sleep. Cranky? I’m always a moody bitch, so that’s not a good symptom.

Wait a minute. Maybe I’ve been pregnant for years. My daily routine usually consists of headaches, heartburn, complaining about being tired and general snarkiness so how the $%^# am I supposed to know what’s really going on in there?

I know you’re like the size of a lentil or something like that, but c’mon dude. Give me something to go on here! I can’t wait the two weeks until our next appointment without growing uber paranoid. Because, not going to lie to you man, momma has still been indulging with a daily coffee and more ham than may be recommended. We all have weaknesses. NOW MAKE ME THROW UP.