and then instead of balloons or confetti or even waiting 'til after the show has ended, you tuck back into your seat and shoot your husband a text that goes something like this:
"i just peed. you have some explaining to do."
then after the movie, and after you've said goodbye to the other people in your party, your husband turns to you and says, "are you sure?"
and even after 3 more drugstore tests and one trip to the doctor, he's still not buying it. but, right when you think it's going to end with a trip to maury povich for a paternity test, your husband decides that you're not making it up after you gag over the smell of bread. but it still takes him a few months to warm up to the idea...
(believe me now, ben?!)
the first three months were well, pretty painless. you leave the first trimester unscathed with morning sickness and only minor bouts of nausea, but by month four your nose begins to get the best of you. instead of factoring in hormones, you are convinced something has died in your kitchen. domestic bliss has never been your forte and you don't spend too much time preparing food as it is, but every time you open the fridge to grab a cold beverage or left over spaghetti, an odor that can only be described as a "troll's beard" seeps through your nostrils and you can't help but run out of the kitchen gagging and crying.
every outlet has a glade air freshener plugged into it, but the smell of the dead mythological creature's facial hair prevails...
you try really hard to eat healthy, but unfortunately your brain is now telling you that eating raw fruits and vegetables is equivalent to eating uncooked ground beef. so for the first 4 months your diet consists of pizza pops, ramin, pizza pops, hummus w/ pita bread, and chef boyardee.
all of which you can't look at now without dry heaving.
and then you begin to hate heidi klum, victoria beckham, miranda kerr...pretty much every single member of the victoria's secret model crew...and realize that the only "glow" pregnancy has brought is the inch of grease on your forehead.
and then there's the inevitable "mood swings". luckily, you haven't had many but discover that certain stimuli should be avoided:
-allowing patients to turn to steel magnolias on the tv while you're cleaning their teeth at work
-the new les miserable trailer
-and every folgers coffee commercial
but crying is the least of your worries, because you have found that pregnancy has brought on hysterical, borderline psychotic laughing attacks...and everything is funny. your husband is really loving this because what used to be annoying traits of his (ahem...bodily functions) seem to be his best comedy routines. you begin to wonder if you'll ever make it to the third trimester without going into cardiac arrest from watching one too many cat videos on youtube...
(you name them samwise and frodo, respectively.)
and dreams of looking like this:
look more like this:
(photo courtesy of: one cruel husband)
but then, if things could possibly get worse, by month 7 you're so swollen and sore that pregnancy decides to throw a curve ball and give you carpal tunnel. it gets so bad that you can barely wipe your butt most days...and don't even think about trying to knit...out of the question. the baby is doing the mexican hat dance directly above your bladder, and you begin to walk like you've peed your pants (which sometimes you think you might have). and as for movement and baby kicks: never once you think that they're "butterfly flutters or rainbow kisses" but more along the lines of poor judgment and eating a whole little caesar's hot 'n ready to yourself...and the repercussions that follow...
(you must now resort to those nasty wrist braces to get a decent wipe...)
and then you begin to hate yourself for ever agreeing to working up until 38 weeks, but on your last day of work you stay 2 hours after just because you have no idea what you're going to do now...so you decide to make an impromptu trip to visit your family since it's your mother's birthday. at this point your patience is non-existent, feet are the size of watermelons, and sleep deprivation is an old familiar friend. you almost go homicidal on a few family members after your brother calls you "fat" but chalk it up to poor taste in jokes and an undiagnosed case of asperger's syndrome.
but then your husband decides to jiggle the chin jowl you've attained from the swelling and a month's worth of pizza pops, and you've had it. you walk into your 39 week check-up with low expectations when out of the blue your doctor tells you that you're 3cm dilated and she could stretch your cervix a bit to get things rolling. you agree to this because you have just finished watching star wars: attack of the clones and could really be put out of your misery since you're not sure you can handle another movie with hayden christensen's feeble attempt at acting.
so the doctor gets down to business, but a thought crosses your mind mid-stretch: you can't go into labor this weekend because there's a new episode of the walking dead! and amc has made you wait a whole month for it...priorities, right?
but it's too late, and you're sent on your merry way.
so here you sit: waiting for the baby to arrive and reminiscing about the past 9 months. you have lunch's apple juice stained on your shirt, and it's gotten to the point where you can't blame your husband for all the unwanted noise, because these days, you can out-fart him without even trying.
but you're ready.