Get low

Until I was expecting, I thought that all bellies with babies in them were created equal. However, over the last few weeks, I have begun to notice there is something different about my growing stomach.

They say it’s a myth that having a boy causes you to carry low, but old wives can’t be wrong all the time. And, true to old-wifery, I’m carrying Baby boy Palmer extremely low.

As a result, my stomach doesn’t have the round, I-swallowed-a-basketball-look that I always associated with a beaming mother-to-be. Instead, it looks like a swallowed a few too many Coronas, or worse yet, a baby kangaroo. To give you a visual: It looks like my lower half got the memo that I was pregnant, but my upper half decided not to join in on the fun.

Being 5’ 9” and having a relatively long torso makes the Grand Canyon-sized chasm between my boobs and my belly even more noticeable. And, although I’ve never been one to think a pregnant belly is particularly adorable (the reason why I shy away from pictures of my mid-section and prefer clothes to be tent-like versus tight), I can’t help but think carrying Baby Palmer so low plummets my stomach’s cute-quotient even more.

When all is said and done, the aesthetic appearance of my stomach isn’t that big of a deal. The real issue is the constant pressure that Baby Palmer puts “down there.” Some days, getting from point A to point B, unless it involves something with wheels (or my husband’s back) has turned into a Herculean test of my will—and pain tolerance. Although nothing seems to alleviate the pain completely, walking with the pregnant-lady waddle helps a bit.
To avoid sounding all doom and gloom, carrying the baby low does have its benefits. For instance, I can do a darn good impressive of an older lady. With my below-the-belt pooch, all I need to complete the look is waist-high pants and maybe a fanny pack (or two).

Plus, I’ve heard that there is a correlation between carrying low and labor being a bit easier. (Lower position = closer to the entrance = faster arrival.) If my logic pans out, having a mound of baby sitting on my cervix for the next ten weeks will totally be worth it. If not, at least I never have to worry about getting kicked in the ribs.