Everything I've ever read or heard about labor and delivery states the same thing: Leave your dignity at the door. That originally sounded scary to me. Now, I am convinced that the nine months prior to this date is just so that you slowly lose that dignity before you ever get there.

I could go into details, but they would be a tad bit too personal. Let's just say that OB/GYN appointments can be invasive, that phone calls to them are ones that you wouldn't want your co-workers to hear, and we'll leave it at that.

Part of it is the increasing difficulty I have in sitting up after lying down. Even though I can prop myself up on my arms, it still requires a bit of flailing, much like that of a turtle turned upside-down on his shell. This cracks Jason up to no end; he says it's "adorable" but I know damn well he means "ridiculous." Adding to this is the subsequent hand I place on my back, which aches if I recline for more than a minute. And I'm already beginning to find that shifting your weight back n' forth, from foot to foot when I'm walking, is far more comfortable; I should be in full-waddle mode within a month.

And I know I look pregnant, but dear lord, can't people say anything other than "You're getting big!"? Michelle at work put it best when she said I'd "blossomed" over the past week, but c'mon, the woman's a lawyer. She's used to manipulating language to her advantage. :-) Even a couple members of Jason's family are quick to point out how much larger I am than Anne, his mom going so far as to suggest that my due date must be way off. Nothing makes a woman happier to know that, if someone attached strings to her hands and feet, she'd be leading the Macy's parade. Thanks, folks. :-P

Even the guesses as to what the baby's sex is can be insulting, my personal favorite thus far being my mom telling me it's a boy because my ass has gotten wider. Followed closely behind are a couple of my co-workers arguing with me that it's a girl because the heartbeat was 159 and everyone who's actually given birth knows that girls have higher heartbeats. ("It could be a girl," I had answered diplomatically. "No, it IS a girl. You'd better get used to it," I was told in a voice reserved for petulant children and idiots. Of course, my mom pointed out that both my nephew and great-nephew had higher fetal heartbeats than my niece and great-niece; then again, she could just be justifying why my ass has apparently gotten wider, which I'm really not seeing.)

The only good thing I can think of lately is the three people who've referred to me as "mama" in casual conversation: My Grandma and Grandpa Alonso, and Donna at work. I know, it sounds silly. But I can't help it, I grin and get happy as soon as I hear it. Maybe it's because that drives home what all the rest of this is really for. :-)