Week 36: Reflections on peeing on a stick

Homestretch folks!

Uncle Karl and Auntie Deanne took me to the beach yesterday. I enjoyed momentary weightlessness while they enjoyed real live National Geographic, watching a Dugong in its natural habitat.

My latest photo

I stopped waking up thirsty in the middle of the night. My hormones might have settled down. I don’t think baby’s dropped yet. I feel like he’s quickly losing space inside and protesting with fist raised. At least I think it’s his fist on my lower abdominal area, since the knife stab-like jabs to the rib from what is presumably his feet have become frequent, especially when I play him certain beat-based tunes. This week found us playing Alt-J (Thank you Tito Russ for the intro), which he’s very responsive to. Give this a listen:

No nursery rhymes for this boy. I enjoy watching my belly make waves throughout the song. It’s like I learned a new dance move without even trying. With all this movement though, baby has been cephalic presentation from the get-go and doesn't seem to want to make any major changes to that. I hope he doesn't suddenly turn at week 37 or summink.

In celebration of Easter and things-on-sticks, OffbeatFamilies posted the question of how women reacted to peeing on a stick andcoming up with the two lines.

I remember how mine went. While we were shooting Aberya, I was cranky, tired, constantly out-of-it, and very very emotional. Despite being hungry, my usual barbarian appetite was nonexistent. A month after shooting indefinitely wrapped, I was down with what I thought was ulcer.

For two days, I took the necessary medication and hated it before Ninang Gani came over to help me with some natural remedies - honey, vinegar and cayenne pepper, which I hated even more.

And then the partner noticed that despite shrinking everywhere, I’d added an inch or two to my bust size. He asked me when I last had my period. I’d lost count way before production.

Just some hours later, I was in the mall bathroom, involuntarily shaking the stick. I showed the partner: two lines. When I cried and he asked me what was wrong, I wanted to smack him in the head. It’s not every day that an inanimate object tells you your childhood is over.

You cannot imagine the roller coaster of feels I got that day. I felt like until that point, I was on free fall and had suddenly been introduced to the ground. Oh hi Gravity, I forgot about you.

I told him I didn't know what to do. I’d always wanted to be a mom someday, but not until I was rich and famous enough to afford single motherhood. He held my hand (for the first time in public since we became remotely romantic) and took sobbing little old me to a restaurant. What a way to celebrate.

He sat me down and bitch slapped the hell out of me. Told me it was more important to raise the kid with a bounty of positivity rather than material stability. I thought then that he’d make a wonderful father. At least the kid’s only 50% doomed.

I took a week to process everything. I was 8 weeks pregnant. I AM PREGGORS. I thought that was going to happen to me maybe 5 years later or never. I also thought I was immortal until this point, and the ruler of 8 galaxies. I had a thing inside of me that was growing faster than the time it took to write this post. The thing inside me was going to turn my body into putty and reshape me into my mother’s image (goodbye posing for nude paintings). The thing inside me was going rip me out from the inside out and take my heart along with it. This last part, I was sure. Because within a minute of knowing of his existence, I was afraid I was unworthy of it (and damned worried about those ulcer pills I’d been taking).

And in four weeks (more or less) the thing inside of me is going to become a thing outside of me, the usurper to my 8 galaxy-kingdom, heir to both my delusions and realities. Nobody is ever prepared I've been told.