Misery Loves Ice Cream

With approximately three weeks left I’m finding myself deep in the throes of pregnancy.  The old Christina who swore she’d keep herself looking good, wearing heels, eating healthy and exercising has now been destroyed and eaten by new Christina.  Looking good?  If style is defined by the ability to rotate two pairs of pants and three tops into five outfits a week, then yes I am super trendy.  Eating healthy?  I’ve succumbed to my ravenous ice cream desires, and at all times have the house stocked with: 1 gallon of Haagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond ice cream and 2 bottles of Smucker’s Magic Shell (in case you’ve never heard of this – it’s liquid chocolate syrup that forms a hardened shell when poured on top of ice cream – the most amazing invention known to man).  I keep things “healthy” by allowing myself only one “serving” per day.  Exercise?  I purchased some pregnancy workout DVDs and try to take nightly strolls around the neighborhood, but have recently phased out both due to the debilitating cramps and spasms that occur, sometimes while crossing the street.  Crumpling into a ball in the middle of oncoming traffic no longer seemed worth it.  And heels?  Those, along with wedges and shoes with any sort of incline were blacklisted back in month six.  I’ve been living in all of my favorite flats and refuse to believe that they’ve probably been expanded beyond the limits of post-pregnancy wear.  These along with my stretched out tops and pants will receive a proper burial when I return to the body I once knew.

Yesterday after shamefully scarfing down a value-sized bag of Famous Amos cookies, a large chocolate chip I had saved for the last bite slipped through my fingers and (I thought) onto the ground.  After searching for a few minutes in my limited range of movement/view, I gave up – only to have it tumble out of my clothing many hours later.  It had been living on my person for the entire day – somewhere in the abyss of my billowing maternity top.  Walking through the hallways at work I feel like I’m being constantly followed by a low breathing heavyset woman, only to look around and realize that I’m alone.  Every night I barricade myself into a fort of pillows – not for fun as you might think, but rather to prevent the onset of every little ache and muscle pain through strategic pillow placement.  Which luckily serves a dual purpose because how else would my husband be able to keep his hands off me?

The past few weeks have gotten me wondering if I was always this clumsy, this messy, this absent-minded?  Is it just more noticeable because instead of the napkin in my lap catching crumbs it’s now my belly table?  Will I be like this forever?  This is of course more venting than worry, and as miserable as it can be; all is eclipsed by the fact that there will soon be a BABY in our lives.  I’m comforted knowing that the worse I feel, the closer we are to meeting our little bundle of joy.  Until then you can find me buried under a mountain of ice cream.