As I write this we are 13 hours away from jetting off to Cancun for our very first babymoon.
What is a babymoon, you ask?
It’s like a honeymoon but you take it before you have your first baby because it’s the last time until retirement you’ll be able to go somewhere just the two of you without having to arrange child care. It’s a trip you take while you still have time. It’s a last hurrah.
I know I sound like parenthood is going to end my life. And in a way, it kind of is. That is, my life AS I HAVE HERETOFORE KNOWN IT will be over. I will still have a life, of course, but it will be so hugely and unimaginably altered that I can only think of it as some kind of death and rebirth. Childless Camille will never exist again. That person will be gone. Things will change. Permanently.
Maybe it won’t be that drastic. Maybe I will like the changes. I don’t know. I can’t say because I’ve never been there before. All I do know is that it will be different and I am more than a little scared.
But enough of that. Want to see my stomach?
That’s me at 26 weeks (or 6.5 months for those of you who get annoyed with pregnancy counts in weeks). I am officially due on August 2.
At 26 weeks random strangers have started asking me when I’m due. I half want to be mean and act like I’m not pregnant at all, but my aversion to awkward situations prevents me from doing so every time.
No stranger has tried touching my stomach yet but two different little kids did. That was weird. And everybody knows it’s not nice to slap a kid especially in public so there wasn’t much I could do about it.
At 26 weeks pregnant I have extreme pregnancy bacne which has now made the glorious transition into chestne which is just as awful as it sounds. Luckily my facene has diminished significantly, a feat I attribute solely to my use of Jane Iredale’s Magic Mitt to wash my face. I think it really is infused with magic.
At 26 weeks I officially weigh in at 194 lbs. I’m telling you this because if I was ever slimmer than you, it should make you very happy indeed to know how far I’ve fallen. And if I was always thicker than you, well, whoop de do. I look at that number and it blows my mind. I weigh more than I ever have, by nearly 20 pounds in fact. And I thought it was bad 20 pounds ago.
No need to reassure me I “look great” or it will all “fall off” or any of that. I’m not fishing for compliments or sympathy or anything at all, really. I’m just telling you because I thought you might like to know. I’m trying to distance myself mentally from my weight because stressing about it just makes me want to eat more Rice Krispy Squares and I’m pretty sure that’s what got me into this mess in the first place. That, and unprotected sex.
Also at 26 weeks I have a fair bit of lower back pain. I am still tired all the time. I have a really hard time sitting up from a reclined position and don’t bother asking me to get up from the couch unless you plan on giving me a push, because it’s necessary.
No cankles yet and since I bet you don’t believe me here’s proof:
No (new) stretch marks yet either but sorry you don’t get a picture of that shiz. You’ll just have to trust me.
Poor Kyle, in true Poor Kyle fashion, is half sympathetic and half completely clueless about how much sympathy I actually expect from him, but really can you blame him: Almost every person I know is clueless about the expectations I have of them. It’s not them it’s me.
He is very generous with his back rubs. He empties the dishwasher regularly. He doesn’t grumble much at all when I come home with yet another garbage bag full of baby clothes from thrift stores or yard sales or Kijiji. He talks to the baby every day. He is so excited to be a dad it sometimes makes me want to cry.
And in a bizarre and unforeseen display of unity, he has vowed not to shave his beard or cut his hair until the baby comes or maybe ever.
This to you I swear: never in the history of humankind has there been a man so proud of a beard and a mane as Poor Kyle is of his.
I don’t like facial hair and never have, but I cannot begrudge a man this joy.