18 Weeks

For a day my face was relatively clear. And by clear I mean all I had were some scars that were relatively easy to cover up. No new bumps begging to be popped. I thought this pimple stuff was nearing an end. I thought I could finally stop hanging out at pool joints or sneaking into movies I didn’t pay for or going to punk rock concerts. For that smidgen of time, I finally didn’t feel 17 again. For the past few months it seems like just as I get rid of one pimple another one sprouts. I mean really? Isn’t the weight gain enough for a woman to deal with? I won’t even mention the wonderful thickened hair that’s followed only by hair that’s as stringy and thin as an elderly woman. No offense to elderly woman. But now I know why many mom’s opt for the “bob” look postpartum. It’s just what works. Elderly woman have been doing it for years. Only they don’t have pimples all over their chins. Am I saying I’m jealous of the elderly now? What’s wrong with me? I also won’t mention the sensitivity, the resentment associated with watching as your husband enjoys the same body he had when you got married despite the fact that you can beat him in a push up contest (yes, this is true. Ask Willy. He won’t deny it.), and I certainly won’t mention the fact that yes, this growing thing inside you has to come out at some point and it exits through a small, very small hole. The same hole you were worried about inserting a tampon in. No, no, no, I won’t mention any of these things. What’s that you say? I just mentioned all those things? Well I can’t just go back on what I’ve already said…
But I can leave you with a positive thought for this wonderful week in pregnancy. There is nothing, seriously nothing, as sweet as being a mother. Love became better defined the day I birthed Hooper. People can bitch all they want about pregnancy and lack of free time and sleepless nights and how it sucks worse to be a woman and how your kids turn on you when their teenagers… and all of that can be true. But the sum of all the negative doesn’t even begin to compete with sum of the positive. It really doesn’t. My meaning, my purpose, my joy wakes me every morning with a little whine that reminds me I am the luckiest mom in the world. And there’s no feeling that good.
That little kick Willy got to feel with his hand cusped over my belly felt pretty good this week too.

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