Buddha Belly

At first I couldn’t see anything and then I started to look full, like I did on Thanksgiving.

Recently, my little turkey dinner began to take up more room. Of course, I encouraged the idea with several boxes of chocolates over Christmas. I can be glad that my pancreas are getting a decent workout as the rest of me finds putting on my socks a demanding athletic pursuit.

In the morning before I have any food or drink (and after I have been to the washroom twice during the night) my bump is relatively modest. Since the holidays however, even an empty stomach cannot conceal this playful paunch.

“I have Buddha Belly!” I said to my husband. ‘You mean, Buttah Belly’ he joked.

True, something about pregnancy has reawakened my appreciation for pastries. I find myself driving well out of my way to hit the closest donut shop. And God forbid anyone take a danish out of the variety-pack on my kitchen counter. It ignites in me a wild surge of resentment toward the culprit. Doesn’t everyone know these pastries belong to me?!?

Taking stock of my bump the other day my mother looked at herself and exclaimed ‘I look four months pregnant all the time!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I am five.

I like the term Buddha belly because it reminds me of the orange-robed monks of Tibet. Their peaceful focus on loving-kindness gives me so much more confidence than the pastel coloured pregnancy books I keep receiving from well-meaning friends and family.

Come to think of it, I can’t recall seeing any fat monks but if it’s alright with you I’ll just pretend.

Between You, Me and the Fencepost

Unhinged is the only word I can think of when people ask me how I feel lately. Of course, to spare them the discomfort of such a bizarre reply I normally offer a cheerful ‘Oh – feeling great!’ It allows me to quickly move on to other topics of conversation less likely to make me cry, like the assassination of Benazir Bhutto, for instance.

In addition to my being easily moved to tears by, say, too many choices of peanut butter at the supermarket, it seems as though my sense of humour has taken an extended vacation to south Florida. I pretend to laugh if it is socially appropriate to do so but this only makes me want to cry even more.

When I try to tell myself that I am simply ‘hormonal’, The Hormones, like a bad punk band, fly into an mind-splitting song with a chorus that goes something like "Oi!Oi!Oi! Boy? Girl? Boy?" As you can imagine, the space in my head fills with their noise and this is usually a good time to take a nap, (even if it is my second or third of the day).

I know, I know – I am supposed to be blissful and glowing and gorgeous as I wiggle into my new belly-friendly jeans (which, by the way, never quite fit no matter how much elastane they put in them). When I chose to start a family I knew I hadn’t signed up for a pleasure cruise, but between you, me and the fencepost pregnancy has me flailing down level 5 rapids.

The people who call this second trimester the ‘honeymoon’ period have obviously never been pregnant. I am so far from my normal self that I fear for the safe return of the ‘real’ me. Even Brian, my very patient husband, has taken to avoiding me and who could blame him, really? I don’t converse, I blubber - quite like the seniors to whom I fed applesauce the summer I worked at the Holy Family nursing home.

Lately, if I string together a coherent sentence it is usually a complaint (“I can’t breathe”) or an order (“Get me a glass of water”) or both – “I can’t breathe so GET ME SOME FRENCH FRIES!” During brief moments of clarity I think it would be quite humane of me to encourage Brian to find a mistress. Of course, that’s before I remember he had something to do with helping me into this whole situation.