Baby or Beer Gut: You Be The Judge

March 1, 2010

Everything is still happening very much under my belly button – I feel like a droopy sack of pennies. I figured this was normal for this stage of pregnancy, until I went on another daycare visit this past week. The woman who gave me my tour is due almost exactly when I am and has a nice round belly like Alicia does (this particular daycare is in the habit of referring to its as teachers as, eg, “Miss Julia” and “Miss Amy,” giving the place a Gunsmoke sort of feel, but that’s a story for a different time).

I know pregnant bellies come in all shapes and sizes, and my doctor says that everything is progressing normally. At my last visit, she whipped out a tape measure and deftly measured my belly lengthwise, more or less from pubes to boobs. I guess they do this to estimate the size of the uterus, though I momentarily felt like I was being fitted for a very strange bespoke suit.

I still haven’t felt the baby move much (Royringo, conversely, is currently kicking Alicia six ways to Sunday; we think he’s using her ribs as some sort of prenatal jungle gym). Again, my doctor assures me this is normal, and that much of what I’m writing off as gas – and make no mistake, there is plenty of gas to go round – is in fact the baby.

“Don’t let anyone make you feel bad that your baby’s not moving as much as theirs are!” she told me, earnestly – as if there’s a gang of smug, internally bruised preggos out there mouthing off to me on a regular basis.


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