Backaches and poke-y tummies

The burgeoning belly

Heather told me my stomach has started poking out.  I feel that things are so ambiguous in that area that mainly it means I look fat.  I want the tummy, but I also want it to be clear that there’s a baby in there instead of just Cheetos.  Still, the fantasy of little Evie filling out a Santa coat has sustained me for quite some time, and poking out now could mean a bowlful of jelly next month.  I’ll just have to be vaguely tubby for the time being.

Midwife Amy told us on our last visit that my placenta is sitting up at the front of my uterus, providing a padding that has quieted my perception of Evie’s squirms.  It’s not dangerous—the placenta, she said, moves around throughout pregnancy and only creates a problem if it blocks Baby from the cervix during delivery—but it takes away some of the whimsy of this current stage.  Without the beach-ball belly I crave, the feeling of our banana-sized daughter moving is much-wanted proof that such a creature actually exists.  We have ultrasound pictures, blah blah blah, and I was reminded with dry heaves yesterday that Evie still resents Mommy’s perfume, so I guess I know she’s there, but I’d like something more tangible. 

The burgeoning nursery

At Heather’s end, tangible means nursery décor.  She’s plenty invested in feeling the baby move, but she’s been itching for months now to get patching and painting, and the moment approaches.  Thanksgiving is over and done, Christmas is all up to Amazon, Evie’s gender has been confirmed by ultrasound…  There is nothing to hold Heather back.  She can decorate for our baby while I decorate for the baby Jesus.  Irreligiously, of course, and somewhat more gaudily than what’s gonna fly in the nursery, but nonetheless. 

I am totally getting a banner for Evie: “Unto us a child is born!”

Gay parenting at 20 weeks

Little Evangeline is doing her thing, swimming around and showing “good variability” in her heart rate.  Our bun is baking away.

In an attempt to be good parents, Heather and I went to a seminar this week at the area gay & lesbian community center.  They do good work and I’m happy to donate, but we’re no more interested in socializing with gays than straights—small-talk is small-talk, yo—so this was a stretch.  Still, the speaker is pretty much the only game in town as far as gay-family law is concerned, and Heather figured it was cheaper to withstand an evening of social exposure than to make an appointment. 

What I can say is that the crowd at this particular event did not do much to dispel stereotypes of lesbian haircuts or fashion.  There was a surprisingly disheveled pair of gay men—don’t even bears have to groom?—but mostly it was the kind of audience that would send a bigot running at first glance.  I nearly ran, myself, once overbearing couples began interrupting the lawyer.  Heather and I grimaced at each other, silently swearing never to return.  After a stint in the back of the overheated room, we’ll happily pay lawyers and CPAs for their time if it means comfortable chairs and quiet conversation.