I seriously feel like my belly doubled in size over the weekend.
This girl is all up in my business. She's squooshing my lungs, she's poking my bladder with little sharpy stabs. There's almost no room below for my pants to stay up. And those belly bands are bugging. (How's that for alliteration?)
And CLOTHING! Don't get me started. I'm all, "I HATE YOU! STOP TOUCHING ME!"
My out-in-public-all-nakey-nakey days are long gone, but boy, would it feel good. When I'm home, I pull up my shirt and just sit around bare-bellied. One, it's comfortable, and two, it's fascinating watching her move under the surface of my skin.
I admit, it's kind of like Alien, but I'm riveted.
Yesterday, as we were hanging out having sweet schmoopy cuddle time, Nick was clearly amused by my attempt to roll from one side to the other. Because now I am not unlike one of those potato bugs when I get stuck on my back.
I haven't needed the Amish man with the forklift yet, but I'm sure that's coming.
He giggled, but not at all unkindly. I'm sure I do present a funny image, all the arm flailing to get over to the other side.
But you want to make a pregnant woman hostile? Laugh at anything physical she's doing.
Everything is now so hard. I huff and puff going down the block. And up the stairs. And down the hall. I don't have enough room inside my body. I never know what will be too tight tomorrow. Putting on my shoes is hard. MY CLOTHES ARE CRUNCHY!
In other words, I was all poke him in the gut, "Oh, yeah? You think rolling side to side is easy because your big old stomach just sloshes when you roll over. You try having a big, solid, 10-lb ball strapped to your front."
I'll cut you. Don't think I won't.