Fat Bastard

Experiencing mood swings a la first trimester, obviously festering from a combination of fear, anticipation, excitement, and stress from getting ready for a baby at home as well as getting ready to leave work for several weeks, I decided last night that I needed to climb into a bubble bath, and maybe even shave my legs. After all, this baby could come any minute, and I'm sure the obstetric staff might be mortally offended if they took note of my hairy legs. If I can't take care of my own legs, how will they be able to trust me to take home a human baby?

Okay, so the shaving was more to make me feel a bit prettier, a bit more put-together and taken-care-of. I soaked in my drop-in tubby and reveled in the bubbles, but as I prepped my calves with Raspberry Rain foaming shave gel, I was dismayed to find that there were parts of my leg I just couldn't see anymore. Or reach. Even sitting down in the bathtub. I frowned, did a few blind sweeps of the razor, and called it good enough.

My ankles have been swelling more than usual, and I swear that those doughy appendages attached to them are not my feet. Michael insisted on putting the compression socks on. It took more attempts, more grunts, more grimacing from my jaw-clenched hubby than usual to push them over my stumps. I regressed to age four with a quivering lip and incessant whine as I told him to skip the ritual tonight, as I valued each layer of skin that was coming off. But hubby was determined. My ankles, as we had assessed earlier in the day, had begun to pool in rings of what looked like lumpy pudding. When we both looked down at the damage, our eyes widened a bit, then Michael saved the moment. He has a tendency, from time to time, to bust out his Bill Cosby impression. His arms bent at the elbows, fists clenched, he wears a near-constipated look on his face with an amused half-smile and eyes squinted shut. "Jelllll-o-puddin'-pops," he says in perfect imitation. After I noted the consistency of my ankles, he struck his pose and said, "you have the-Jelllll-o-puddin'-ankles!"

Back to the scene at hand, I was now wearing my hot socks. Skin of my legs stinging, blood now circulating a bit more obviously with gentle throbbing in my half-shaven calves, I cried. I know, hard to believe, right? Me, crying. "What's wrong now?" Michael asked gently. How he can maintain a spirit of gentleness after 9 3/4 months of this is the mark of sainthood.

"I look like Fat Bastard!" I pouted. For any readers unfortunate enough to have missed Austin Powers II, the character of Fat Bastard is composed of Mike Meyers wearing a fat suit and kilt. "Honey," Michael responded in a still-gentle tone, "you are not Fat Bastard. You're not Scottish."

He's lucky that my volitle mood swung just long enough into the sense-of-humor realm to find this comment funny. What I also find funny is discovering what he has observed in the middle of the night. On average, I am up 5-6 times a night to pee. This was simply annoying at first. But now it's near-dangerous. For the carpet. This past week, I have approached the point where if I am in the same position for more than 10 minutes, it's going to take me a good minute or two to stand up. I always wondered what that was about, looking at pregnant women gingerly standing up. Now I know, oh man, do I know. It's called pain. When my body becomes as comfortable as it can get and then I ask it to do something as crazy as stand up, well, my uterous, bladder, and abdomen all have something to say about it. I need to unfold myself to standing very slowly lest something snaps in half. And if there's urine in that bladder? Well, good luck on that one. Your pain has just tripled.

So at night, blessed with a master bathroom that houses a toilet about 20 feet away from the foot of the bed, I just slowly get my feet to the floor, and not bother with the unfolding process. It takes too long. It's too painful. And like I said, I like our carpet, I'm not interested in needing it deep-cleaned just because I stood up straight. So off I waddle into the darkness, stealthily close to the floor, back hunched over, quick ET-like steps bringing me towards my destination, clamboring with my arms oustretched to my porcelain friend. It occurred to me this evening, as I was holding my upper and lower halves together lest they separate standing up, that Michael probably slept through my trips to the bathroom. Probably.

"Mikee," I asked. "Do you ever see me get up to go to the bathroom at night?"

He answered simply:

"Urchin."

Oh, he sees me alright. I can only hope for him that after all of this is through, the humanoid form of his wife will return to him, in physical appearance and temperment.