The Indignities of Pregnancy

Back when my feet were pretty, and
I could take a hot bath without the
danger of boiling the baby inside.

Look at my fat feet!

I sat at a desk all day at work, sat in my car as I drove all over God's creation running errands, and then sat at a desk all evening at home, paying bills and printing shower thank-you cards and writing some blog posts. My swollen feet look like little sausages trying to escape my favorite Steve Madden flats.

Patti, my favorite nurse, would be pissed. She insists that I spend a significant time each evening with my feet "up." I'm not exactly sure how to get them "up," since that would involve me lying on my back and breaking the cardinal rule. (Pregnant women are not supposed to lie on their backs because it squashes a main artery and drops blood pressure for mother and fetus, which is very bad, hear tell.)

When I do lie on the couch for a little Food Network viewing, I adopt THE most unlady-like pose as I lie on my side with one leg thrown over the back of the couch. If I were 10 years younger and 100 pounds lighter, that might be sexy for my husband to see when he walks in the door. For the moment, it's creating skid marks on the kitchen tile as he does an about-face on his boot heel.

This little BTU manufacturer inside me raises my body temperature at whim, but especially after I get out of the shower. I put off getting dressed as long as I can, and I have to leave the bathroom door open while I style my hair or rub lotion all over my swallowed-the-moon belly. My teenager has had the unfortunate experience of walking down the hallway and glimpsing my naked ass, muttering to himself, "I did NOT need to see that."

Many pregnant women fear what happens to their nether regions, particularly hemorrhoids. (Think Darcy in "For Keeps?": "There's something hanging out of my butt.") I got news for you, honeys. Those are nothing compared to varicose veins.

Oh, and I just love this abdominal muscle separation, which is essentially a hernia on my belly. I literally have to hold myself together as I walk, or the pain is excruciating. I bought a giant belly band, which is helpful to wear around the house as I wash dishes or cook dinner, but I can't wear it for too long without squeezing my bladder beyond repair or exacerbating the lovely condition I mentioned above.

Rolling over in bed has become an exhausting production. So has walking up the stairs. Walking anywhere.

And where the hell did all of this hair come from? It's even growing on the big toes of my fat little feet.

Now that's sexy.