B-b-bbb-bb-b-b-BAby, you just ain't seen nothin' yet
- On my vacation, I bought excellent bras, the largest Wacoal makes in my preferred style. I am jettisoning the crappy white cotton Motherhood bras I bought, the ones that don't quite fit. At last I am holstered (and tastefully upholstered) in seamless, stylish comfort. It was worth the forced march I had to endure through the Mall of America. Some things you should know about this tabernacle of commerce:
- It contains approximately five Gap stores, three Victoria's Secret stores, and get this one Glamour Shots for Kids. Imagine my surprise: I guess looking like a whored-up airbrushed big-haired hoochie mama isn't just for grown-ups anymore.
- It used to have a cereal theme park sponsored by General Mills where you could slide down a giant spoon into a pit of Cheerios. I was bitterly disappointed to learn this had closed, as I had long cherished a dream to wallow in oaty goodness.
- There is a Chapel of Love for those romantic souls among you who want to tie the knot between a Lenscrafters and a shop dedicated to selling baseball caps.
And no, I did not go on the roller coaster, though once I'd acquired my new bras, I am pretty sure my breasts would have weathered the ride with nary an outraged quiver.
- I am officially nesting. For many women, this entails painting a nursery and lining drawers and folding and refolding tiny baby clothes over and over and over. This is an impossibility for me, because:
- the room that will be the nursery which I have taken to calling "the b-b-bbb-bb-b-b-BABY'sroom," in a panicked stutter is still serving as Paul's office;
- I have purchased no baby furniture and wouldn't line a drawer in it even if I had; and
- I have acquired no baby clothes, not a single soft wee garment.
No, for me, nesting involves a compressor, an air nailer, a random orbit sander, a shop vac, and a pressure washer. The b-b-bbb-bb-b-b-BABY may have to sleep naked in a laundry basket in an empty, dingy room, but if she ever wants to lick the back deck, we'll be golden.
- I feel movement now. I wish I could say I am filled with awe and wonder, but it's more like horrified fascination. For me, pregnancy continues to be a little bit like watching Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, where you know the baby seal is gonna get bitten clean in half by the killer whale, but you just can't look away.
I said a little bit.
In fact, this utterly natural process of gestation seems strange and almost upsetting to me when I think about it, so I try not to think about it. It should not surprise you that I'm finding all of this somewhat unsettling. After all, you're talking to a woman who is freaked out by eggs, any eggs other than chicken or sturgeon, including and perhaps especially her own. I mean, what could be weirder than having a live creature doing a front giant into a one-and-one half front salto south of the goddamn Equator?
Wait, don't answer that. In fact, I absolutely forbid you tell me what other disturbing surprises pregnancy has in store for me. I might lose my nerve entirely.