It’s really weird, the combination of being in new work environment, being a chronic over-sharer, and having a belly button gone suddenly as haywire as Herman Melville’s beard (dear lord, you should see it. I don’t know if it’s due to leftover diastisis recti from my last pregnancy, but my belly button has exploded in a pink, angry fury. I can’t even imagine what it will look like by 40 weeks, I imagine it will need it’s own bath tub)
My pregnancy isn’t a secret, it’s almost 16 weeks old and I’ve splashed it around in multiple places on the Internet, and I’ve told my workplace — at least, I’ve told my immediate management and most of my colleagues in my immediate vicinity.
But today I was talking to one of my earnestly smart and athletically gazelle-ish young colleagues and I wanted to explain that my ill-fitting top was related to gestation, not smarties, but there’s no way to do that professionally. You can’t just insert it casually into a conversation about strategy and client goals, it doesn’t fit.
My dubious outie and the fact that there’s a mysterious life slowly growing ears and toenails and stuff for procreation inside me is really of no relevance to anyone but me and so it’s a hard fit in conversation. But the thought of just getting increasingly giant every day is rather uncomfortable. Then again, so is everything about pregnancy. The skin tags, the headaches, the cellulite and the weird smells. I smell different during pregnancy, and I forget afterward every time until I am pregnant again and I think “Aah yes. The pregnancy smell.“
It’s not bad, per se, but it’s unsettling because it’s foreign Is it hormones?”
My brother turned 35 years old yesterday which feels pretty crazy because my baby brother is suddenly a full-on, middle aged adult. We ate too much Greek food and a fantastical amount of yogurt and man, I have a cool family. My brother’s girlfriend, she’s disturbingly gorgeous, yes? He’s still got that weird whatever-it-is-he has that all the houseladies loved so many years ago.