I think I've landed a tiger stripe...line of demarcation...woman warrior wound...or better known as
A STRETCH MARK!
I'm not going to lie. I am the first one to be sincerely supportive and in awe of everyone else's pregnant bodies. I see your glow. I love your little outie belly button. I'm a belly rubber. And I honestly mean all those compliments I dish out. But I just can't seem to accept the belly on and physical changes in myself. I'll admit it.
I am 2 days shy of being more pregnant than I have ever been before. And life decided to celebrate by giving me a 1 inch trail of tears in a subtle "blush and bashful" (25 cents for the one who can tell me the reference). And it's on the top of my belly...you know, I can't even lie and say it's a c-section scar. And do you want to know something else that is totallymoreinfoaboutmyabdomenthanyoueverwantedtoknowbutIlostmyfilterinthe29thwkofpregnancy? (I figure, if you spent the time reading that run on, you are invested in my blog and deserve to hear my over sharing. Heck, and may even be interested.) I have accumulated more angiomas on my gut, which are stretched out and look like Jackson Pollack did a splatter painting with sour cherry paint all over my belly. Oh, but let me add that his canvas is also covered with a fine layer of downy hair. Finally, there is a 3 dimensional relief aspect with my guts herniating out of my belly button. (How's that visual?)
And in one fell swoop...my sports illustrated dreams are dashed.
I know this baby is bigger than my last 2. I know I am bigger than I was during the last 2 pregnancies in part due to a lack of morning sickness and being very, very well fed. I might as well assemble a trough next to my bed and just throw the entire pantry into it and so I can graze all day. Or one of those portable troughs they give farm animals that is hitched on to some jury rigged head gear. (Ooo! Shark Tank idea!) But I thought like wisdom teeth, stretch marks were not in my genetic make-up. Or that given my history and house arrest, the pregnancy gods were smiling on me and would offer up both a fast labor like the last 2 times and a scar free body. (At least scars that keep me in contention for G-rated bikini modeling; let's not go into the 1st and 2nd degree karate belts I've earned. Or did I just go into it?)
I'm still willing to settle for 1 out of 2, m'kay gods? Last time it was 10 minutes and he was out...I'm asking for at most 9 minutes 30 seconds. Fine. 45 seconds.
And come Saturday, I may be able to start walking off some of this house arrest that is deposited in my cheeks (all 4 of them), thighs, haunches, and that space that used to house triceps.
(Lauren Fleshman, you aren't helping by posting your 6 month belly shot and talking about all the runs you are still accomplishing.)
Vanity is an ugly sin. But so is dishonesty, so I might as well come clean.
PS--I have absolutely no aspirations to be in bikini modeling. Never have. Never will. My real aspiration at this time is to be best friends with Anderson Cooper or Jimmy Fallon. And, sadly, much more attainable than bikini modeling.