Announcing.... The Seed!

It may appear to the untrained eye that I have been letting myself go. Sweatpants. Sofa. Wheel of Fortune. Munching on Golden Grahams, Matzo, and the occasional pretzel rod. I’ve stopped cooking. I’ve ceased blow-drying. “Shower” is actually scribbled on my daily to-do-list. AND I feel incredibly proud when I can cross it off. I seem to have somehow activated a sadistic resurgence of adolescent acne in my T-zone. The giant ones. Band-geek worthy. With a pulse. I’ve completely given up on the YMCA elliptical while flipping through Us Weekly, even when discretely encased by Newsweek. I sob during State Farm commercials. I cannot open my own fridge without sporting one of those SARS masks you see in Asian airports. Oh yea, and most importantly I have turned the exact greenish hue of the Grinch who stole X-mas.

There is a creature inside of me, sprouting webbed hands, tooth buds and eyelashes. And some other important stuff, like organs. Brad and I are both ecstatic. It is a miracle. A miracle the size of a lime that has me sprinting to hurl over the toilet whenever I see a hamburger, think of pizza, or smell anything other than cantaloupe and pineapple.

I have been trying to bond with the little “seed”. I tell her everything is okay. I gently rub my tummy. I take long leisurely naps. But, I have a sense she is mocking me from her little amniotic command zone. I am pretty certain we are dealing with a girl. There is too much drama going on in there to suspect a laid-back lad. I have even given her an identity. Secretly and very maturely, I have been calling her a name that Brad impulsively “vetoed”, but that has been my childhood fantasy ever since I dressed my first Barbie doll.

The doctors all nod enthusiastically when I tell them I am feeling like shit. “That’s fantastic,” they grin. “Lots of hormones surging around in there! You should see things taper off around Week Twelve.” Week Twelve. I have been awaiting this Week Twelve like the coming of the Messiah. I have been counting down, pacing, salivating like a school kid for summer. Well, week 12 came and went. And the only apparent “tapering” is in the form of that invasive little worm that continues to starve me every ninety minutes.

I was thinking, maybe this kid is just looking for some good old-fashioned public acknowledgement. After all, we have kept this pretty hush-hush. Maybe I am gestating a star who will be the next Scarlett O’Hara and she just needs a sprinkling of narcissistic attention. So – here you are…public acknowledgement, kiddo. Everyone (aka my 17 loyal followers) is virtually adoring you on my blog. Now, it would be just swell if you would consider giving dear old mom a break – after all, I hate to manipulate your sweet little developing brain, but pretty soon you will be at my mercy. That’s right. Mom will be wielding all the power. I can’t wait for you to come out so I can introduce you to these things we call boobs.