So You Have a Vagina

I'm having a girl.

Despite my protests that it wouldn't make any difference what sex my child was, within hours of finding out I had already dropped some serious change at Baby Gap, Old Navy and Nordstroms. So there is one difference between girls and boys, and that's that girls have a fierce selection of wardrobe options and retail adorableness available to their parents.

Did anyone else know that Roxy made baby clothes? I mean, seriously, how am I suppose to resist?

*Sigh*

My son was ever the diplomat upon finding out he was having a sister. He didn't even pause, he didn't pout, he didn't look disappointed. He simply squealed, "I'm having a sister!" and that was that. Now that he stands about eye-level with my navel, he frequently hugs me and puts his face in my belly while announcing, "Hi baby! This is your brother, Cracky!"

Both Cracky and The Fiance like to put their mouths right up to my belly and announce their presence to the baby. I wonder if it startles her? They both want her to know them, so I encourage this behavior.

And also I'm fat.

21 weeks into this pregnancy and I have officially popped. Unfortunately I'm probably not huge enough to be absolutely-positively-super-obviously pregnant, so I find myself humiliated to work out at the gym. There's no mistaking the volleyball sticking out of my tank top. It wouldn't bother me so much if I were certain everyone there were certain I was pregnant. But I'm not. So I wonder if people just assume I have muscular arms and legs and a fondness for beer. I also vacillate between trying to suck in my gut and pushing it out even further to make sure I really do look pregnant.

*Sigh*

And I've had to increase the assistance on the pull-up machine each week. Either I'm getting weaker each week or I'm getting fatter.

Probably both.

*Repeat Sigh*

Being pregnant isn't as cute as I remembered. I'm thinking I'm on to some sort of Mother Nature Conspiracy. You really do forget what it's like to be pregnant, give birth and raise a newborn after a few years. This is how you get tricked into thinking you can do it again.

Well, at least she'll be well dressed. And I'll have really buff arms and legs. I've already determined that I'm not recovering from pregnancy and delivery without a personal trainer. If Heidi Klum can do it repeatedly, what not me?

And I don't even have to strut around in a bikini with angel's wings, so I've got that going for me too. Though my new-found buxomness would suit me well in their lineup. Oddly enough, I'm not enjoying my voluptuousness quite as much as I thought I would. I find big boobs somewhat embarrassing. They stick out so rudely, so obviously. It's like they're trying too hard.

I miss my polite boobs. My aerodynamic chest. My sleek, svelte, cheetah-like self. Made for speed and predation. This larger, rounder, softer, more slothful me is made for fertility. And naps. The Fiance seems to like the latter.

Boys are so weird. 

I think I'm fat, he thinks I'm phat. 

Mars vs. Venus.

XY vs. XX. 

Guess we do have some differences, aside from retail.