At 27 weeks, my pointy belly and I went down to San Diego to see my parents. (Also, I dyed my hair, as you may have noticed by the faintly Elvira-ish shade it seems to have turned since the last weekly photo. Apparently, L'Oreal and I have very different definitions of "dark brown.")
At the airport—Hamish's 21st flight in utero! This kid is going to be born reciting the airline safety instructions—the TSA man to whom I'd handed my ID and boarding pass looked at me and said "Just the two of you?"
For a second, I thought he was making a fairly decent stab at humor, given that my burgeoning belly was pushing its way between us, and so I smiled and opened my mouth to say something equally witty and hilarious—you know, like "Ha! Yes!"—but then I realized he was looking over me at the guy behind me in line, and so a few seconds passed where I didn't quite know if this was a cheesy baby-on-board joke or if he was legitimately inquiring as to whether this dude and I were traveling together. That's the thing about being pregnant, I think; a lot of the time, it feels so utterly all-consuming that it eclipses absolutely everything else in your life. When I see people I haven't seen in a little while, for instance, and they say "Oh hi, how are you?" my first instinct is to say "Ah, well, I'm pregnant," as though it's suddenly the most defining thing about me. I mean, sure; that's probably the biggest change in my life since we saw each other last, but still, "doing well, thanks!" would likely serve just as nicely, at least for this level of the conversation.
Anyway, since the last person you want to piss off unnecessarily by laughing at them is a man who is a) authorized to not let you get on your flight and b) carrying a gun, I decided to play it safe and assume he was actually asking if the guy behind me and I were traveling together and not trying to make a cutesy baby joke, and so I just said "Oh no, I'm by myself," which proved to be the right call, because he nodded stone-faced, stamped my boarding pass and let me through. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, I guess. Sometimes the TSA agent isn't trying to engage you in hilarious baby-related banter.
(Also, sometimes the Gap will send you an email with the word "train" in the subject line and it'll be about exercise clothes—you know, things you train in—rather than the adorable trainset-themed onesies you were expecting. Bit of a disappointment, that one, I have to say.)
The funny thing is, when I'm not acutely aware of being pregnant, the rest of the time I pretty much just forget. It always takes me a few minutes in the morning to remember, and I'm terrified that I'm going to accidentally order a gin and tonic or buy a non-empire-waisted dress or go bungee jumping while eating unpasteurized cheese or something, and then only remember afterwards when I'm drunk/squeezed into something I can't zip up/lying in the hospital with a broken leg and listeria. Has that ever happened to anyone, do you think, just forgetting they're pregnant for long enough to do something forbidden? Has it happened to you?
Much like Kim Kardashian—hmm, not something I could ever imagine saying about myself before now—I think I've finally figured out how to dress my bump for maximum "yes-I'm-pregnant-not-just-frumpy"ness, and it involves, if you can believe it, a lot of maxidresses. Now, I had hitherto considered the maxidress flattering only on a very specific type of person—basically, the five-foot-eleven type paid to walk the runways of Paris and Milan—but I have to say that maxidresses are curiously flattering on the pregnant body, for some reason. I myself have this one and this one and rotate them more frequently than is possibly hygienic. I also adore this pair of pants, if we're recommending attractive maternity clothes, and only wish they came in more than one color because I would likely own them all.
Aside from these three staples, I am mostly wearing a motley mix of hand-me-down shirts from my kind friend A'Dell, who shipped me a bunch of stuff a few weeks ago, just when I was beginning to despair of ever looking cute again. Let me tell you, if you have a pile of leftover maternity clothes that you don't know what to do with and there is someone, however random, in your life who is pregnant, GIVE THESE CLOTHES TO THEM. (Uh, if you want to, I mean. I don't want to sound bossy about it.) I cannot tell you how much better it made me feel to suddenly have some choice in my wardrobe, and I fully plan to pass on my own hand-me-downs and make someone else's day when I'm finally done with them.
27 weeks is, by most accounts, the very last week of the second trimester, and my body—as though wanting to remind me of how generally pleasant and painless this section has been so far—decided it would go out with a bang. I was getting ready for work last week—putting on my makeup in my bathrobe, half-checking email on my phone—when I opened my mouth to tell Sean about the (surely scintillating) dream I'd had that night and boom, instantly knew that I was about two-point-three seconds away from throwing up.
I made it to the bathroom just in time, where I hurled my guts out with the vehemence of the first trimester vomiter (band name!), while poor anxious Sean hesitated outside the hastily-closed door saying "Holly? Uh...are you okay?" and all the time I was thinking whoa, what is happening, I felt FINE just a second ago. Is that common, do you think, for the early days of queasiness to pay you one last visit later on just to remind you who's boss? It took me right back to that terrible period in December and January when I spent a large number of mornings (and evenings) kneeling at the porcelain throne. And because I am someone who lives for nostalgia, I didn't think, like a normal person, oh god, this is totally disgusting. Instead, I just thought awwwww, this! I remember this! Man, they grow up so fast.