obscene
I feel like part of pregnancy is you grow and grow until you’re unrecognizable, until you’re swollen and useless and too enormous to be categorized as a human form. More of a horse or a cow, with a girth so big in the front it looks painful to walk, so heavy it looks like you should resort to all fours. Something out of proportion to our sense of what a human is or can be, that moment of sublime or an extreme that looks almost obscene, that a body could do that. Then, and only then, is it time to let go. That’s when the baby’s born.
I’m not there yet, though. At thirty-five and a half weeks pregnant, I have one month or so to go. I google-image other women who are at my stage of pregnancy, and some look that big and some don’t. At this point the baby is done developing and has the job of putting on a layer of fat to deal with a Michigan winter. A half a pound a week. Last night I might have eaten that in ice cream.
