you've seen those shows where the kid wakes up crying from a bad dream and the mother rushes in and wipes the tears and calms the fear with a soft voice and song, then you know she usually lays in bed with the child and the two of them fall asleep next to one another in the most enduring of ways.
well i bet that mom wasn't pregnant, because if she was she would have been me last night-just too darn pregnormous to lay in a toddler bed without the sounds of wood chips splintering at the notion of holding my weight.
i am getting huge. it no longer matters what i wear, how i wear it, i just feel whale-like. and the sad part is, i still have 2 more months to go. no longer can i go down without letting out groans as i attempt to raise my body back up, or walk without slightly waddling, or wash my hands in a public restroom without getting a line of water across my shirt. and everywhere i go, everyone i meet, wants to know when i'm due, what i'm having, how many is that for me, have i picked out a name, who my ob is; informing me about the trials of having two so close in age, how wonderful it will be for them when the get older, and so on and so on. of course, such inquiry is nice, but it is still none the less small talk, and i hate small talk. i'm constantly fighting the urge to be inappropiate, to answere a question with a reply that makes the person extremely uncomfortable and me exteremly amused.
alas, this is my third trimester, and at least i have a month or so before the "you like your going pop" comments become a subsitute for casual salutations and i can no longer do things like shave my legs without falling over in the shower. though for the time being, and on, it does little for those middle of the night norman rockwell/full house images i'd like to re-inact.