I feel a lot of different ways about my big, pregnant body. I wanted to write one simple piece, like “Reasons Why I’m Super Sexy Pregnant.” Or “I Still Have Body Image Issues While Pregnant.” But it’s not really one or the other—it’s complicated, like life. But I am super sexy pregnant, I promise. You should see me. I’m pretty much just oozing sex appeal:
I think my face looks naturally sullen. It’s a thing for me. I don’t know why. I was just born that way.
And also, my pregnant body is like a shield—it hides me from other people. It disguises me.
My pregnant body is like a window—everyone can suddenly see inside, and they want to talk about my motherhood.
The waitress at The Meatball Shop, where I have now been five times because meatballs are suddenly the best food ever, tells me that she just broke up with her boyfriend of five years, and it’s really because he didn’t want a baby and she does, she wants a baby so badly. Her acting career isn’t really going anywhere, but she’s OK with that. She just wants a baby. Her cousins are all having babies. Why is it so hard to meet a decent guy in this damn city?
The woman with the headscarf in CVS has been trying for a while, but nothing so far. It’s so frustrating, she says, smiling. She says she wants eight kids. I can’t tell if she’s serious. “Do you want a lot?” she asks me.
“Yes,” I say, even though it’s hard to imagine even one, even though her foot is working up into my ribs as we speak and I have begun to refer to her as “the vicious baby” and sometimes “the evil baby.” Theoretically, I’d like to have more of them. Preferably if they could just appear on my doorstep one day, softly swaddled and fully gestated.