I put on one of a few outfits that will fit me - probably a maternity top that obscures the fact that I'm wearing a pre-preg skirt, or maybe those maternity gauchos that make me look like a big fat pirate. Every day, I cringe as I see myself from the side and wish that someone would ask if I'm pregnant, instead of just assuming that I'm sporting a full, taut, belly that grows weekly. Every day = silence. I know the rule...never ask a woman if she's pregnant unless you can literally see the child crowning. But still.
I eat a high-fiber bar around 7-8 a.m., and wonder if today will be the day that I'll poop.
I drive to campus, park the car, and haul myself up the hill to class, complete with calf/thigh/ass cramps, side stitches, etc. As I reach my first class, I'm usually embarrassingly out of breath, since I haven't yet modulated my walking speed to accommodate my new heft.
At about 10:30, I feel hungry again, and Hortense is treating me to some jarring kicking and pounding. Between my first and second classes, I inhale a granola bar, or some peanut butter crackers.
Around 12:30, I have the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that's being squished in my bag. Sometimes, I eat this during my 3-hour class, like a preschooler.
I spend 3-4 hours at work on campus, three days a week. Unfortunately, all of the stool/chairs available for me to sit on are oddly tall, which means I have to fling my bulk upwards and backwards and hope to land at the right place on the stoolairs. Usually, right after I manage to get myself settled (when I get myself on the chair, I then have to pull up my maternity pants in the back and my underpants in the front), someone needs something, and I have to slide off again.
Around 4:30, I become oddly delirious with hunger, and Hortense pummels me.
I get home at 5-6, lie on the couch, and whimper until my husband makes me dinner. I complain about the teeny hairs that are now growing on my stomach and the lack of flattering pregnancy jeans in my life. I choke on my own spit once every 2 or 3 weeks, which is terrifying.
So that's essentially the life of a big fat pregnant grad student. With any luck, it will continue this way, with minimal drama, for the next 18 weeks. Last week, I asked my OB, "Are there things I should be doing at this point in the pregnancy? Not doing?" Her response: "Don't drink, don't smoke crack, and try not to get punched in the gut."
That's all??? I am never reading another baby book AGAIN.