Nancy Drew and the case of the missing....

Warning. Stuff gets real in this post. If you are easily embarrassed, or talking about my lady parts makes you uncomfortable, you should probably stop reading.

Oh, that doesn’t freak you out? God bless you, and read on.

There are a lot of things that happen throughout the first 30 weeks of a pregnancy that serve to challenge your view of yourself as a woman. Before being “with child”, I would wake up in the morning and look in the mirror. I’d make a pee pee, then stand in front of the mirror again, turn to the side, and usually suck in my tummy.  Sometimes I’d weigh myself before AND after the peeing, just cuz it gave me an early morning sense of accomplishment. I’d usually then resolve to try and eat a smaller lunch that day. Overall though, I was pretty happy with what I saw.

These days that morning glance in the mirror reveals that nearly everything that used to curve IN curves OUT. Ironically, while I’m doing what could be argued as the most feminine thing possible, never have I felt so unattractive and manly.

Since not everyone who reads this blog has experienced the beauty and wonder of the life giving miracle, and since frankly, I would have enjoyed a better heads up on some of the joys that it entails, I’d like to chronicle some of my bodily changes to give you a better understanding of my current self image problem.

The cast in order of appearance:

Pancakes belong at the IHOP, not on my chest

As a young lady, one of the most exciting prospects of growing up was someday having a sizable chest like my step-sister. She was 4 years older than me, pretty, and always got a lot of attention from the boys. I would pray almost daily for my chest to grow. Unfortunately for me, when God heard “chest” he mistook that for “mustache” and for years I was left wanting.

(As a side note to any adolescents reading this post:  don’t go for the facial hair bleach in the green box.  Just pluck it, wax it or shave it, and save yourself the horror of looking like Colonel Sanders at the 7^th grade dance.)

I digress. The point I’m trying to make here is that God clearly saved all my pre-teen prayers for the miraculous day when the little spermy fought it’s way into my egg and life was created in my lady womb. Almost immediately my chest started to grow.  I mean GROW. To give you some perspective, I went from buying the “miraculous push-up” in a 34B to a hideous flesh colored 38DD full coverage unpadded bra at Target within a matter of weeks. You might be thinking “oh yeh Beth, cuz big boobs AREN’T sexy, pooooorrrr you”.

No, not these.

Unfortunately, my lady hormones forgot to pass the memo to my nipples that they shouldn’t grow as well. What were once happy little perky gals who pointed straight forward to greet me in the mirror when I removed the miracle bra, embarrassed of their massive growth, now hang their faces in shame.  

These Flintstone Feet can make your bed rock

I’m not a foot person. I’ve never really understood those guys you hear about that like to lick feet or whatever, but I DO enjoy looking down at mine when there’s a fresh coat of pink paint on them. Sometimes a French pedi. Sometimes bright red if I’m feeling SAUCY. I also always enjoyed going out wearing open toed shoes or, in my current profession, switching to a pair of flip flops once I get safely inside the building every day.

These days, my feet are so fat that red polish makes them look more like cocktail weenies dipped in sauce than sexy lady toes. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t bend forward far enough to reach them, and they’re in such disrepair that I’m pretty much  mortified to expose them to my little guy at the nail place down the street. Sadly, my feet spend most of their waking hours hanging out inside of huge reaking Ugg boots. It’s no way to live, really.

From the rear I look like a thanksgiving feast

Complete with mashed potato booty, and a back full of rolls. What used to be tight like the top of the turkey looks more like the gravy. I’d like to thank the friggin 3 way mirrors and fantastic lighting in the Target dressing room for that realization.

Target dressing room: 1

My self esteem: 0

The KO punch

Today ladies and gentleman was the surprise that topped all of the previous gifts the prego fairy had blessed me with. Just as I thought I couldn’t feel any LESS like a woman it happened. As I looked down through the murky water of my bubble bath I realized something of great importance:

I can no longer see my vagina. 

I’ll give you a second to process that. 

No, it's ok really, just take your time.

Due to my engorged midsection, I am no longer able to SEE MY LADY PARTS WITHOUT AID OF A MIRROR. Not that I have any question as the whether they’re there. My bladder is doing a piss-poor job of holding urine these days (pardon the pun) which means I get up and go at least 10 times I day. Judging from what I can feel on the other side of the paper everything is still in place, but there’s just something comfortable about being able to look down and SEE it. 

If you’re a guy reading this you’re probably thinking “if I were your husband I’d make sure it was there… harrf harrf harrf (insert stupid thoughtless man joke here)”.

Yeh, ha. You’ve clearly never been pregnant or married to a pregnant woman. That’s how I got in this mess and I have roughly ZERO desire to re-live it. In the meantime,  I’ll be keeping the mirror close at hand and praying for brighter days.

Dear Vag,

Miss you! See you next summer,

Love,
Manatee