(Hey, I'm not dead! I know, I'm surprised, too.)
Pregnancy makes you do weird things, and think that doing these weird things is alright. For instance, let me set a scene for you:
The other day, my oldest sister and I were at Toys R Us looking at baby things. You'd think we'd have gone to Babies R Us for this, but we live in one of the sparsely populated square states and so that was not possible. Whatever, it doesn't matter, don't judge us because we're primitive.
There we are, walking around all lah-dee-dah looking at this cheapo-cheap kiddo crap (Seriously, have you looked at all the plastic in that store? Mother of Mercy!) and suddenly I get an odd, crampy, strange feeling in my downstairs and come to a jerky halt. My sister looks over at my expression, which must clearly say, "What the fuck?" so she asks what's up and I don't think to lie, so I say, "I think there's a foot in my vagina," and she chokes and stares, aghast at her baby sister's droppage of crotch-speak in a place meant for buying of child-type things for children who may have their midget-sized ears within hearing range of words she doesn't deem fit for the kiddos. (Vagina? The other day I said "You've got to be fist fucking me!" while holding a four month-old. She would have been so scandalized. What? Don't look at me like that, it's not like the baby understood. I clean it up around kids. Or so I thought.)
I said this very out-loud, in a toy store, for what may be the first time in history those words have ever been uttered in that place. And she was in shock. I think she almost threw up.
Well, she shouldn't have asked.
I realize I'm only twenty-one (and a half!) weeks along, but man... I could have sworn that my little acrobat baby was standing on one foot right down inside my pelvis, and it wasn't very comfortable, so God forgive me for saying the V-word in the Toys R Us. I was overcome by the urge to share this strange happening, although I'm sure "outburst due to being overcome by feeling of foot in fanooter" won't stand up when the men in white coats are filling out their commitment papers and need something to put in the WHY section.
Look, okay, so I'm still not really showing very much. All of the pregnancy books and calenders and websites and articles say that I should be over run by strangers giving unsolicited belly pats every time I step out my front door, and that has yet to happen, probably for two reasons. One: I hate strangers and I think they can tell by my getthehellawayfrommeyoufuck glare I give them when they get too close to me, because strangers are notoriously perceptive, and two: The belly, she is not there very much. So. I mean, I can tell a difference, but it's not like KA BAM! here's an obviously pregnant girl! More like pfffffffft (that's my farty noise) here's a chick who looks kind of bloated and should probably lay off the salt.
This lack of belly scares me when I let it, and I think that in an effort to counteract the fear I have become really, "Oh my goodness, so there's a foot using my cervix as a trampoline right this instant, glory be!" about things. Because hell if I'm not going to marvel in this while it lasts -- be that 9 months or 9 minutes. I'm all in. You may want to buy a pair of shades to shield your eyes from the shining glory that is my child-like sense of wonder.
In other news: We close on the house in three days, and can start moving in that day. Which means I should probably finish packing but eh, packing is for losers and I'm nothing if not a WINNER who wins at winning, and who the hell am I kidding? I just don't want to stuff crap into boxes anymore. This is not a good time to decide I don't want to pack anymore, as my entire bedroom and kitchen still need to be rounded up, but... Feh. I'm kind of done with it and have decided that as opposed to doing any more actual packing, I think I'll just take arm loads of my junk to my car, drive to the new house, and unload said junk. We're only moving across town.
It'd be very green of me to save the boxes, don't you think?