Girth and the Gravity of Growth

I've been wearing tight shirts to get attention lately.

Bradly and I are growing in all sorts of interesting ways, and people are starting to take notice. I don't mind people touching my stomach. Normally, I think I would. I'm kinda a side-hug, no-touching type gal. But I accept this as par for the course. It seems pretty normal that someone would want to touch a growing, if hidden, baby. I think the whole process is pretty fascinating and miraculous and mysterious. Of course, people are curious and instinctively reach out to it. That's okay by me.

However, I have to confess that I sometimes get a sort of uncomfortable, self-conscious feeling about the looking, the monitoring, the intense noticing of my body. There are all sorts of paradoxical, contradictory things happening inside this introvert. I like the attention, and I really like to talk about all things Bradly-related, but it's odd to be the subject of so many gazes. And I get told that I'm not so big for 4.5 months, which in some ways is good, I guess. But in some ways makes me feel like my belly is a little anticlimactic or unimpressive. Some days I want a roaring monster Mother Earth belly that everyone will recognize and respect and genuflect toward. And some days I just feel fat and saggy and past my youthful prime.

We went out to a bar on Saturday night for a friend's birthday, and getting dressed to be in that setting and getting dressed as a pregnant lady didn't mesh easily for me (Where's my black lace muumuu?)... Quite honestly and vainly, I don't want people to think this belly is just a chubby pot belly, which obviously is not the end of the world, and why do I even care what these strangers see? Aren't I a mother now? Mothers (can look sexy but) don't need to look sexy... They are secure in their identity.

But I didn't feel that way. I kept putting my hand on my belly while we were there to indicate that this is a baby--you better recognize. In the future, if you see me putting my hands on my belly, that's what I'm doing. I'm grappling with my self image, announcing with authority that I used to look better than this, no, really, I did.

While we were at the bar, there was a cute, cute girl there. She had on a very chic, very casual, backless orange shirt, and she seemed to be one of those people who are just comfortable in their own skin, just having fun. And though I know there's absolutely no need for or benefit in comparison, I compared my own dumpy status to hers. And I was afraid. I was afraid of never being that girl again--not that I ever was--but I was afraid of being a mom and wearing flowery capri pants and boxy white t-shirts for forever and never getting dressed up to go out for drinks again. I was afraid of, not just the change in my body, but the change in my life, too.

We don't even go out to bars anymore, so why am I envious of this girl? I don't know. I'm ready for this new life with Bradly and excited to think about all the things we'll be doing with her. I get teary thinking about the little diapers and getting a swing set and dance lessons and shopping for a prom dress and shopping for a wedding dress and every little thing in between. And I love that big picture so much. But that girl at the bar on Saturday seemed to represent something else entirely that was passing away. And I worried that I might miss it.