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Broke Wife, Big City
Pregnancy:
Farter for the
greater good
By Aprill Brandon
So, I'm still pregnant.
I know! I feel like I've
been pregnant forever too. In fact, I'm having trouble remembering a
time when I wasn't pregnant.
(Just kidding. I remember
all too well. I have nightly lucid dreams in which I drink Scotch and
smoke cigars while taking a bath in Diet Coke and stuffing my face
with unpasteurized soft cheeses. In these dreams, I also occasionally
end up in a compromising position with the guy who played tuba in my
high school marching band, except he has the voice of Morgan Freeman
and is secretly Ironman. But I'm blaming the baby's subconcious for
that one).
For those of you keeping
score at home, I am now officially 18 weeks pregnant. Yup. Not even
halfway there yet, folks.
(Interesting side note:
Although medically I am considered 18 weeks pregnant, technically
I've only been pregnant for 16 weeks. For some reason, they count the
two weeks before you actually conceive. Why the discrepancy, you ask?
Best I can figure, it's a conspiracy that goes all the way to the top
of the OB/GYN community. I'm 92 percent sure there is a secret
society of vagina doctors somewhere who meet in a creepy torch-lit
dungeon, where they trade tips on how to keep their hands freezing
cold at all times and have a good laugh over making women with
pregnancy brain do bad math).
Of course, I shouldn't be
complaining. Now that I'm safely ensconced in the second trimester,
its pretty much been smooth sailing, minus some baby-induced
flatulence that has both my husband and my dog looking at me in sheer
awe.
"Oh my God, that was
YOU!? We bow down to your superior farting skills. From hence forth,
we shall blame you, our new queen, for our own farts."
And truth be told,
pregnancy isn't all THAT bad, despite my snarky yet HI-larious
observations in previous columns to the contrary. I mean, for nine
months of misery, you get an entire human being out of the deal,
so...I mean, I'm not that good at math or anything (see above) but
that seems like a fairly decent return on your investment. Especially
if you factor in the method of how you actually make a baby, which is
generally SUPER fun unless you're doing it VERY wrong. Yes, perhaps
it's the fact
I finally stopped puking or that I'm finally looking "pregnant"
as opposed to "just ate her own weight in tacos," but I'm
feeling a bit warm and fuzzy these days. Maybe even, dare I say,
maternal?
But most likely this change
in attitude is because I now have proof of life. Proof that something
besides gas and cheeseburgers is living in my ever-growing abdomen.
Proof that the violent mood swings are because I'm growing a human
and not because I'm crazy...hahaha...nope, not crazy! You hear that,
honey? I'm not crazy! Chasing you with that hammer because you left
the toilet seat up is totally normal, babe! Hahaha! (Voice drops an
octave) BRING ME PICKLE JUICE. NOW.
Yes, I felt the baby, my
baby, kick for the first time. There I was, sitting on the couch
reading Vogue at six in the morning because I couldn't fall back
asleep thanks to my body now thinking getting up before the sun is a
daily challenge it must meet. When out of nowhere, BOOM. Or...well,
more like lower-case boom (considering the kid weighs as much as a
chicken breast currently). A tiny flutter followed by what felt
distinctly like a poke.
So naturally I did what any
mature, sophisticated woman on the brink of motherhood would do: I
ran into the bedroom and jumped on the bed like a little kid to wake
my husband.
"I felt the baby kick,
honey! I felt the baby kick! Which means we are actually having a
baby! Er...well, since technically we haven't seen it yet I guess it
could be a dragon or something but the point is, the baby/possible
dragon is ALIVE! AHHH!"
I couldn't help myself. At
the risk of sounding like a cliche, it was truly one of those
life-changing moments. The moment when I realized the magnitude of
what was happening: My husband and I had created a person.
I wasn't just farting.
I was farting for a cause.
And while I'm sure I'll go
back to complaining and bitching and moaning, for now I'm just going
to revel in this moment. This moment where for the first time it
feels like we, me and this baby, are in this together.
Can’t get enough of
Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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