Seventeen weeks (and two days). It’s gotten to the point where when people cheerfully declare, “Oh, you don’t look pregnant!” I’m offended. You think my body is just shaped like that? You think those Pop-Tarts you just saw me eat went right to my lower belly?
I’ve pretty much given up trying to hide my bump, opting instead for a giant round pin that says, “I’m pregnant—be nice to me.” (Oh, how I wish. If you know anyone who makes such pins, do tell.) I bought a sweet, heavy, swoopy dark grey sweater for our Iowa trip—one of those open-front kind with long, pointy tail-like ends. I learned from the saleswoman that one end can be tucked in over the opposite shoulder, making for a surprisingly flattering asymmetrical drape-type situation. It fit my new maternity clothing criteria—I can wear it both now and for many months after I’ve given birth and still have some poochiness to hide/obscure, it’s flattering, and I love it enough to justify the outrageous expense to myself.
I eagerly put it on our first day in Iowa, where it was in the fifties most of the time—perfect heavy sweater weather—and then proceeded to shed all over the fucking place like a long-haired cat on the first day of summer. It was outrageous—charcoal-grey fuzz everywhere, coating (which I just typoed as “catting”) my shirt, my pants, the seat on the rental car, my child’s clothes, my parents’ condo. When I found its dark grey leavings wrapped around the spout of my child’s sippy cup, I declared defeat, stuck the sweater in a plastic bag, and let my belly show the rest of the trip.
I'm pregnant—be nice to me.
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