Le Petit Pugilist

Isn't "pugilist" just the best word?

The tiny thug living in my womb has been insisting on perfect posture today.  If I so much as hunch over my computer, slouch on the couch, or round my shoulders he gives me a swift punch in the lungs.  It feels like Sugar Lump has gone through two growth spurts in the last week.  I go to bed feeling comfortable, and wake up 2 inches bigger, unable reach down to scratch my ankle without feeling like I’m going to pop like a grape.

In addition, he has been making some not-so-subtle escape attempts.  After an hour at Costco, in which my husband faithfully bashed other shoppers out of my path with the shopping cart, every step I took felt painful, as if the baby was about to plop out onto the cement floor of the pickles and canned tuna aisle.  By the end of the day I was on the phone with my doctor after having a frightening hour of rapidly increasing contractions (did you know that you can have contractions because you are dehydrated, AND because your bladder is full?  What fun!)

I am 33 weeks pregnant, and while I don’t look at that far along I don’t think my quickly disintegrating frame and overstretched skin can handle much more.  The stretch marks on my hips (they appeared during a growth spurt during puberty, in which I surpassed the height of every 14 year old boy I knew) have actually disappeared, I can only presume because they are being filled out and re-stretched by my ponderous posterior fat.  They’ll be back, and bigger than ever.


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