When I was around 8 weeks pregnant, I remember cooking breakfast in the kitchen with the top button of my blue jeans undone. The bloated baby “bump” I read so much about had finally reared its … well … bump. I knew no one else would ever guess I was pregnant, but I put my hands on it a lot anyway. I loved that my body was already starting to change, even if it just looked like I had eaten one too many salt and vinegar chips.
Chloe, my 7-year-old stepdaughter, noticed it, too. And, in true kid fashion, let me know that she noticed it. “You said the baby’s only the size of a raspberry, right, Sammy? If that’s true, then why can’t you button your pants?”
Oh man. Kids are always there for an ego check, right?
But as the weeks go by, my belly continues to grow and, thankfully, so does the size of our baby. You would think I’d be used to it by now, but every day, I stand in front of a mirror in our house and just stare. Because holy cow, you guys. Where did that bump come from? And, not to get too graphic here, but let’s just go ahead and say goodbye to any button down shirts, OK? Glancing down in the middle of the grocery store to see that two buttons could no longer hold them in anymore is embarrassing enough; I really don’t need a lawsuit from someone as one of the buttons lodges itself into their skull.
If I’m being honest, I’m a little surprised to already be “showing” as much as I think I am. I assumed it took a few months to actually look pregnant, but that is so not the case now. My bellybutton has changed, the curves of my stomach have changed, and dude. I just thought my nails were fabulous sixteen weeks ago. They could model Dawn dish soap now, I swear. Of course, if you didn’t know I was pregnant, you might just assume I ate a little too much over the holidays. However, I have the perfect way to rid people of this theory: I touch my stomach A LOT and say the word “pregnant” roughly every three sentences. They tend to get the picture. (I hope.)
Besides filling out (And still not gaining a pound!), I haven’t had too many pregnancy symptoms here lately. The ravenous hunger I experienced in the first trimester is pretty much gone, along with the headaches and the need for a three hour nap every day. Instead, I’m feeling good, and waiting for those flutters and “tiny taps” to hit me in my expanding belly. Every night, I think I feel it and, well … that feeling proves itself to be something else entirely.
Pregnancy: It rids you of all dignity.
Sixteen weeks also brings me to my fourth doctor’s appointment! I’m excited to hear our baby’s heartbeat and mayyyyybe sweet-talk our doctor into an ultrasound peek? Of course, it doesn’t matter whether it’s a boy or a girl, as long as it’s healthy, but it would be so nice to know if it’s a Rapunzel or a Fabio making Mama’s belly stretch beyond its imagination.
(Baby names brought to you by the newest pregnancy symptom: heartburn. If the old wives’ tale about hair and heartburn is true, those are the only two names available for this kid.)
P.S. While we’re on this topic, we just know that my heartburn and expanding girth has NOTHING to do with the two plates of spaghetti or peanut butter milkshake I had a few hours ago, right? RIGHT.