Something in the Way She Moves

I’m now in my second trimester of pregnancy. 

As prophesied by many of you, the morning sickness finally subsided and I’ve gone four weeks without barfing more than once. Thanks to a face wash that’s half acid and half sand, my disfiguring acne retreated down to my chin, where it stubbornly remains like a outpost of Afghani rebels, but I no longer resemble something made at Pizza Hut. I can’t see my feet without bending over and my belly button has popped out like a turkey timer on Thanksgiving Day, but for the most part I’m feeling pretty good. Even the weather has been cooperative because, as everyone knows, the first thing that happens after you buy an air conditioner is that it rains. Hard. For several days. (Which, except for the leaking roof and the uber-slippery stairs we climb to get to our bedroom, is fine with me.)

Now that I’m not reenacting the bathroom scene from Bridesmaids every few hours, how do I spend my returning mental and physical energy? Simply put, I eat, I drink, and I pee.  

Everyone knows pregnant women eat for two, but I also feel like I’m drinking water for seven and peeing for 84. Apparently, our baby girl is practicing her nursing abilities, which means that, besides sucking her thumb, she’s slurping down big helpings of amniotic fluid everyday. The fluid has to be replenished, so that means I’m always chugging water. I’m up to almost a gallon a day, which is kind of a pain since, due to a petroleum leakage in the ground water about a month ago, I’m stuck drinking the bottled stuff and it gets a little pricey.

Our little fetus is moving around as well, throwing elbows and kicking like a street fighter. She’s been doing this for some time now, but the difference is, now she’s getting bones in those little arms and legs so I’m starting to feel it. My mom used to say that when your baby starts to move, it doesn’t feel like butterflies or gas bubbles so much as something alive inside you. No offense to my mom, but I disagree. I spent the better part of a week wondering wondering what was up with my intestines before I realized the problem was someone, rather than something.

Regarding my third new pass time, the Spanish are really fond of those “Baby on Board” signs and sometimes slap as many as three of them in their car windows. It doesn’t keep the people around them from driving like maniacs, but it makes the parents feel better. I’ve been wanting my own version of one of those signs, but I’d like to change it to read “Baby on Bladder.” I’d hang it on my back whenever I have to wait in restroom queues, which, at our one-bathroom-for-seven-people house, is something like 15 times a day. With a little someone practicing roundhouse kicks to my already bursting bladder, I figure I deserve some consideration.

So do I still hate the feeling of being pregnant? Well, I still hate feeling chubby and wish I didn’t spend such a large chunk of my day urinating, but I gotta say, every day, the scale tips a little further away from miserable and a little closer to magical.