You’ve seen them. The women who, while growing a human body deep in the recesses of their woman parts, glow like cocoa butter on a baby’s bottom. They wear leggings, and they look glorious. They wear heels and don’t grow weary. It’s like they’re on a diet of pixie dust and Skittles. Like a black unicorn with a Jheri curl takes them to work every day. And even when the hormones make them constipated, they poop Rubik’s cubes.
Me, on the other hand, it’s like I’m on a diet of chipped beef and cold cabbage. It’s like I live in London and vacation in The Dregs. My nose spreads, and my hairline recedes to the nape of my neck so that my temples look like headlights when I chew. If I wear leggings, I look like a cheap piece of butterflied steak, and if I had a unicorn, he’d file for workers’ comp (slipped disc).
Those women who glow, the kind who look like a cross between Moses and Rainbow Bright, they also leave morning sickness behind quickly. So I’m all, “Yeah, girl, I feel terrible. And I’m past the first trimester!” And they’re all, “Just eat small meals, and you’ll be fine.” And I don’t know if they’re saying that because they believe it or because they are frightened by the lateral intensity of my hips.
The glorious women, the kind I aspire to be in my third pregnancy, never appear pregnant until it is just right. They wait until the belly is fully rounded but not overbearing. Then they buy some dangly earrings, carry a cute purse, and get bronzer. Then they say, “Oh, yes, we’re expecting.” And everyone tells them, “You are so adorable! Oh my gosh. You are all baby. And you still look fierce.”
With me, I never get the timing right. It’s like I pull the turkey out of the oven when the gizzards are still frozen. I try to wear bigger clothes and hold Occupy signs in front of me as often as possible. But then I go into Target, and I am like a day-and-a- half pregnant, and the cashier says, “I thought you looked pregnant.” And I think, “Are you a prophet or is this another instance of God using a donkey?”
Anyhow, I guess this is my official way of telling you that Elie Mae is going to be a big sister this spring. The poor child is on a strict diet of carbs and fruit just like Mommy. We stay inhaling pancakes and loosening our pants. The good news is, Elie’s nose isn’t spreading anywhere.