Hiccups in my butt...

...and other equally fun symptoms.

Baby is sucking out all my creativity and giving me nothing back except heartburn, horrendous kicks in my ribs simultaneously punching me in the vagina and hiccups in my butt. He’s a tiny multi-tasking phenomenon. His head is down, has been pretty much since the gender revealing ultrasound of 20 wks. When he gets the hiccups it literally feels like tiny jolts in my tushie. Awesome. It’s as though my tookus has a mind of its own or my insides have been so completely re-arranged by the ninja inside that my diaphragm is now near my ass. Either way, it’s not good.

My abdomen feels like it might explode, belly button as the initial point of exit. I can slather oils and lotions on my bread-basket of joy till my fingers are pruney and still my skin is taut and stretched to the limit. My limbs no longer resemble or even feel like what I remember due to their various stages of swelling; even my armpits are pudgy, seriously?! pudgy pits. How is that even possible? I began noticing this about a week ago when I tried to shave them. Do I need to describe the state of my hands and feet? I’ll only add that holding a pen or a paintbrush has been problematic if I expect my output to resemble anything legible or recognizable. No matter how much water I drink, my skin sloughs off at an alarming rate, making me appear like a snake in a constant state of shedding. This could be due to the fact that I’m pregnant in Colorado or that this bambino sucks all the water out of my skin to keep his little ocean filled. I’m aware of the other symptoms that are listed in numerous prepare-for-your-baby-enjoy-your-changing-body websites but there are some they don’t tell you about. I’m thinking this is the case because if they told you everything, people might just stop this pro-creating nonsense. While I try to maintain a state of hygiene and shave my legs, its getting harder to reach them, I’m not going to lie and say it wouldn’t be nice to pop them out at the hip joint, Barbie-doll style, hold them up, shave them, and pop ‘em back in after they are silky smooth. Then there is the increase in getting up to pee at night. If this baby doesn’t explode out my belly button the other option is: he drops just a tad lower and falls out my butt. I’ve been assured this isn’t physically possible but it sure as hell feels like it. He’s squished my bladder so hard that I have to get up to pee at least 14 times a night and I’ve nearly reached my limit. I’m contemplating wearing depends and un-potty training myself just so I don’t have to get up anymore. Yeah, that’s right. I’m actually considering wearing adult diapers and peeing my pants in my sleep. These are the dark thoughts one has when you’re running on increments of 2 hours of sleep or less. I also hear they now come in fabulous pink and purple colors.

As I increase in both size and weight moving like the zippy squirrel I used to has become an issue. There are still moments when I forget just how far my belly protrudes and I try to squeeze through tight spaces and fail. Haltingly. Miserably. Up until my maternity leave started last week there was an ongoing battle between myself and another coworker. She insists on turning the photocopier in our office space perpendicular to the wall, unfortunately for me, my agility or current lack thereof doesn’t allow me to get around it with ease thus ensues the constant banging of the tender belly on the protruding paper trays. I pushed it parallel to the wall every chance I got. Ahh, how I long for my zippy squirrel days. And while I’m ordering, I’ll take it with a tan and a pair of my sexy pre-pregnancy jeans. Thanks.

As far as other size-limiting issues, Teresa Strasser said it best in her book Exploiting my baby, “My boobs are leaking a little, I haven’t seen my vagina in weeks and getting around the back to wipe my own ass has become a geometry problem of sorts. I would need a protractor and a better grasp of math to explain it, but trust me, the angles don’t add up to wiping with

ease. There’s only so fast I can dash out of a room to create some distance between myself and the gas that I can no longer control, but I try, because I don’t have or want the kind of relationship (with co-workers) that involves “dutch ovens” or any other form of gas humor.” I will add that one of my co-workers, who shall remain nameless, but is the one who insists on setting the copier up as a deathtrap, has the WORST gas of anyone I know. And she doesn't leave the room or acknowledge that she’s even let one. Add to that combo a bionic nose and this pregnant gal is gagging. Thank God I got my maternity leave on! Just before this baby falls out of my butt.