But, as soon as my very own baby maker found itself knocked up, watching The Belly became a weird spectator sport. I’d sprawl out on the bed just to watch my bare belly ripple and jump and kick snacks perched upon it clear across the room and down the hall.
Not really, but you see where I’m going with this.
You’d think Aquaman and Sasquatch were battling it out over porkchops in there or something, because seriously? LEVELING MY VAGILADY PARTS.
And, as The Belly grew into a torpedo so massive to accommodate the mash-up living inside it, I half expected to see some beardy sea captain hiding in the cubicle next to me at work, pipe ablaze, slicker collar popped, harpoon at the ready, just waiting to take me out.
Getting up out of my desk chair might have been easier if I’d had a winch and pulley (why doesn’t anyone make those for pregnant women?), and when I finally made it to my boss’ office and managed to lower The Belly into a chair, FREAKING HIM OUT was hilarious. Because I was obviously pregnant with a litter of puppies or a giant squid with a taste for bagel dogs and orange juice.
And then, labor, which crept up on me like bad Chinese.
Jeff had just packed me into bed with enough strategically placed pillows to make The Belly poke up from the covers like a cranky Mount Preggaminjaro. Exhausted – because of the hefting and hugeness – he vampired onto the narrow rim of the bed and fell asleep immediately, while I tried to figure out if my area was doing its whole Braxton-Hicks thing that had been going on since I was about two seconds pregnant, or if bad, fireworky things were about to happen round the corner where fudge is made.
For six hours, cramps gave me the finger, and Jeff didn’t even notice. Figures. Here I was, about to crap the entire bed or send myself skyriding, and he was sawing logs.
Then, I popped. (That’s popped. Not pooped, in case you weren’t sure which thing ended up happening).
Ten hours, an epidural, a full-length mirror, a hemorrhage, a herniated belly button and an episiotomy later, I pushed out a 10-lb. 1 oz. boy so deliciously huge and turkey sized, I was surprised he didn’t come out with a mustache suitable for combing.
Yet little did we know that that one little anticlimactic gush of hot, cloudy water could be the start of the hardest, most beautiful thing ever.