This here bringer of the pooper to the fun party

Battle of the Bump

In less than two weeks Jon and I find out whether we’re having a boy or a girl, or God forbid one of each or two of one. I think my fears of giving birth to multiple babies may be a little more profound than the average pregnant woman, as twins run rampant in both Jon’s family and in my own. My sister has twin boys, Jon’s sister has twin boys, two of my cousins have sets of twins, and one cousin has two sets of twins. My family thinks it would be awfully cute if I had twins, and I just think it would be awfully awful.

Despite my anxiety I’m pretty sure that I’m not carrying twins, and not just because God told me so. God and I had a conversation the other day, at least I’m pretty sure it was God. It could have been gas or possibly heartburn, but I’d like to think it was God. Anyway, God told me that I had suffered enough, what with 28 straight years of chronic constipation, and that he knew my body wouldn’t be able to handle the stress of two babies at once. Carrying twins could render me completely poopless, and he wasn’t prepared to punish me yet for all my sins, at least not in such a merciless way. In return for such kindness I promised to stop telling my nieces and nephews that Mormons sacrifice baby kittens in the temple.

The real reason I think I’m not carrying twins is because my bump doesn’t even remotely resemble the enormity of Kate Hudson’s bump, and she’s only a few weeks ahead of me. If I were carrying twins I’d be at least her bump size, if not a few bumps bigger. Kate looks pregnant, whereas I look like I’m painfully bloated.

During the fist trimester I was convinced that I was having a boy, primarily because I only had dreams about boys and I was uncharacteristically craving spicy food. Most of the men in my life love to torture themselves by dousing their dinners in hot sauce or by eating jalapeno peppers whole, without water or fire extinguisher. It could be one of the reasons I fell in love with my husband, that he is so much like my father when he opts for “hot” when given a choice on the menu. They both get giddy with the possibility of a meal burning a gaping hole in their esophagus, as if the more sweat they bleed from their forehead during a meal the more they can provide for their families, and the more alpha they appear among their peers. I’d never understood this ritual, as I like to eat my meals in relative comfort, without fear of imminent death, until I got pregant. Once I had a baby to think about it was as if I needed to prove to the baby, to myself, and certainly to the waitstaff that I could withstand the burning flames of spicy food, if only to demonstrate that I will be a good mother. The two have nothing to do with each other, I know this, but I guarantee you that men totally understand this line of reasoning.

Now that I’m in my second trimester I’m not so sure I’m carrying a boy, and that’s probably because I’m feeling utterly overhwlemed with the urge to purchase little pink dresses, size 0-6 months. My feminist, graduate student friends would be completely horrified to know this about me, that if I have a girl I will totally dress her like a girl. I know I’m not supposed to impose my stringent, close-minded, Puritanical, privileged white bourgeois notion of gender roles onto my innocent child, but what baby girl in her right mind wouldn’t want to show up to play group in this?

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