baby beer belly

As I type this, the paint is drying on a sign which reads “This is not a beer belly, it’s a baby”.
They say every trimester has it’s own ups and downs. There’s morning sickness and fatigue to contend with in the first one, swollen feet and incontinence in the second one and insomnia and the general urge to murder everyone in those last few weeks of the third one. Ok. So those are mostly the downs. Forgive me, but from where I’m sitting, it’s very difficult to see the ups. Especially since my view is obstructed by a small pot belly.
This is an odd stage of the pregnancy. Your body has passed that wonderful phase where you still look like your former self, are able to fit in to all your clothes and don’t need a wire coat hanger to pull your trousers up past your hips. It’s also not quite yet ready for clown pants and granny underwear. Basically it looks like the bundle of joy you’re expecting is a crate of Stella and an XXXL quattro formagio pizza.
I can see the question in people’s eyes. “Is she or isn’t she?” “Should I ask or just assume that her belly is the result of not going to the gym?” “Hasn’t she heard of Spanx?” More often than not, people just come right out and ask me, “Umm… I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you pregnant?” Now why would I mind that? Because I don’t look obviously pregnant? Because why would anyone still be wearing harem pants when they’re so, like, last season? Or the season before that. I can’t be sure. I no longer deem it necessary to follow trends since the only prerequisites of the clothes I’m going to be needing for the foreseeable future are an expandable waist band and stain resistant fabric.
Though perhaps it’s not all that bad. For one thing, I am exempt from making the usual New Year resolutions that are only headed for failure. I can now stop writing down:
1. I will lose weight.
2. I will banish bingo wings.
3. I will stop using cheese as a seasoning.
I won’t need to hand over an obscene amount of money to the gym and then feign ‘sports’ injuries to get me out of going. Even though I don’t actually play any sport. I can also ignore all the newspapers and glossies as they typographically scream at me to ‘get fit and fabulous’, though Vogue’s cover heralding the arrival of the ‘new bust, waist and leg’ made me sit up and worry until I realised they were talking about silhouettes and not actual body parts.
But don’t think this means I have no goals for 2011. Oh no. I have plenty. My foremost resolution for the year is to buy some indoor plants and not kill them. I would like to remember to wash my hair more often and use something other than my son’s strawberry flavoured concoction. And I would like to improve my sign-making skills. I just realised my latest creation reads “This is a beer belly, not a baby”.

3 thoughts on “baby beer belly

  1. 🙂 I am sure you look fabulous! Good luck with the resolutions…my main one for the year is to not be lazy and procastinate everything to another day!

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