the smell of my desperation has become a stench

34 weeks

This week marked the HOLY SHIT WE’RE GOING TO HAVE A BABY point in my pregnancy:

34 weeks

If everyone could give a warm welcome to my good friend Fred, The Protruding Belly Button, he’s crashing on our couch for the next six weeks. I didn’t hear him knock or drop his suitcase in the living room or notice that he’s been eating all our Lucky Charms. In fact, I had no idea he was here until Jon grabbed my shoulders one morning, looked me directly in the eyes and said, sweetie, I hate to even bring this up, but I think your belly’s got an erection.

I’m resigned to his existence, and sometimes when I’m bored I like to wear really tight shirts in public and watch people try their hardest not to look at him. He’s an evil third eye, a really gross physical abomination that demands attention, and when I notice that someone is actively trying to look elsewhere I’ll start scratching my belly right next to him to give them an excuse to indulge in the fascination. GO AHEAD. LOOK AT IT. LOOOOOOK AT IT. LOOOOOOOOOOOK. You want me to lift up my shirt and start waving him back and forth? Because I totally will. No, really. Watch, if I bend over like this it looks like he’s trying to say something. Hey, don’t run away! Come back! My belly button just wants to talk to you!

Life at this point in pregnancy feels very crowded, meaning I frequently feel like I’m wedged between two people on the subway and am afraid to breathe because I might smell onions on their breath. I’m not sure the baby has dropped yet, and just when I think she’s got her feet wedged up behind my ribcage she’ll go scraping a body part against my cervix and I expect a foot to suddenly poke out from between my legs. I certainly hope you’re eating lunch while reading this because there’s nothing like the image of a tiny foot covered in blood and uterine juices to spice up a ham sandwich.

I’m also way more emotional than I have been in previous weeks, on the verge of tears all day long, and even now as I write this I’m trying not to cry. About what? Do you even have to ask that question? Yesterday it was because my tortilla chip broke into several pieces as I was dipping it into salsa. And then this morning I accidentally dripped toothpaste onto my shirt, and every attempt to wipe it off made the mess exponentially worse, and suddenly I’m standing there crying, the toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, drool and foaming toothpaste dribbling down my chin into a puddle on the floor. Because it was the worst thing that ever happened, and how was I supposed to carry on?

Sometimes Leta will turn to Jon and go, dude, she’s crying again. And I’m all THIS IS NOT CRYING. THIS IS MOURNING THE FRAGILITY OF LIFE. DAMMIT, THIS IS NOT FUNNY. STOP LAUGHING, JON.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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