Occupational hazard for a writer: When your belly pushes your laptop out so far that you can’t type. However, much like Daenerys Targaryen, I am the Mother of Dragons, therefore I’m going to grit my teeth and forge ahead as if I were storming Astapor. (Game of Thrones reference, people!) It’s Memorial Day this weekend, and two of my sisters–Kendra and Cean–are in town visiting. Kendra has left her three kids and husband in Salem, MA, and conquered her fear of flying in order to hang out on my sofa and refill my glass of water. And Cean has traveled with her three year-old, six-month old, and husband to not get any sleep, because, like a jerk, I’ve put them all in the nursery together.

I don’t have a lot of energy to move around a lot, but we attempt a walk in the park just to get out of the house. As we near a playground, a couple of small kids come over and marvel at my gut. Then, their equally small mother comes over and tells me I’m the biggest pregnant lady she’s ever seen. She turns to Kendra, who is a super youthful-looking silver fox, and asks if she’s the grandmother. Then her daughter asks us if she can have a dollar. OK, we’re done here.

My doctor’s appointment is on Thursday, and I’m happy to be around professional people who don’t freak out when they see pregnant women.

“Oh my god! You’re huge!” my OB exclaims when she enters the room. So much for that. “I don’t know how you’re doing it,” she says as she measures my uterus. “You’re the size of someone at 48 weeks. I’ve never seen a uterus that big.” As she rolls up the tape measure, she looks at me and adds, “You’re going to have a lot of extra skin.”


This week’s news is more of the same. My cervix is shrinking and softening (sorry if you were eating when you read that). Everyone keeps asking me if I’ve been having contractions, but I’m stretched so tight all the time it’s impossible to tell. My perinatologist mentioned the possibility of me going another few weeks, and I smile thinly and say “That would be great!” I should be thrilled, but my discomfort level is so high that I’m not too keen on the idea of lugging around an even bigger bag of boys.

I’m feeling really isolated these days, too. Looking at friends’ Memorial Day pics on Facebook and Instagram really bummed me out. All those attractive people, holding up beers and cocktails on beaches, while I hold up my stretched-out uterus as I waddle to the bathroom to pee. I know I won’t be footloose and fancy-free anytime soon, and definitely not in a bathing suit, but it’d be nice to be able to move off the sofa. The sofa agrees!

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