was baby Belly at 8 weeks. (That’s an ultrasound-estimated age; I had no idea
when my last menstrual period was, something my close friends will
I don’t know if she’s a girl
or a boy. I’m quite taken by the idea of a baby girl to fuss and coo over, but a
baby boy monster will be lovely (and loved) too.
I have taken to drifting by Gingersnaps
(that’s a maternity-and-kid-clothes shop) with a silly smile on my face and a
tight grip on my wallet. I pick up baby bottles at the drugstore and play with
them. My sister and I dug up our baby blankets (smelling faintly of mothballs,
bundled in a plastic bag) from the old house in BF and snuck them away to our
apartment. The blankets are soft, white, with aqua piping.
My breasts are huge. I now wear a 36B
bra – I, who used to seriously consider implants, have changed my mind. These
melons are too big for comfort. They actually bounce twice per bump on the road.
At least I now have cleavage to deploy, if only until I stop breastfeeding.
None of my clothes fits. I had to buy
new tops, but I couldn’t stand the thought of waddling in blue floral beribboned
hoohah, so I just buy large or extra large plain tops. My sarongs have come in
handy, as have the few pieces of clothing that remain from my “fat” phase. A
little googling turned up the word “underbelly,” which is the term for how I
prefer to wear the pants that do fit. It seems strange to have a waistline
that’s right underneath my breasts.
on the Belly front later. I have to go to the bathroom. As if I hadn’t gone 15