Giant Walking Uteruses

Dear Cletus,

So I'm at the gym tonight, trying to burn off enough calories to keep me from feeling guilty when I eat 12 molasses cookies before bed (a trend that has become disturbingly regular this week). I'm on the elliptical machine, and gradually I notice that a guy working out near me has been looking my way ever so often. As I keep pedaling away, I become ever more aware of this guy's periodic fits of staring. I get a little self-conscious, followed by a little proud. I have this thought: "Yes! Almost five months pregnant but still getting checked out!" Followed by this thought: "Weird guy, to be checking out a pregnant chick." Followed by this thought: "Pervert." Followed by this thought: "How dare you, sir. I am with child. My body is a vessel, not something to be objectified by your lascivious glances."

Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, breathing raggedly as the elliptical picks up the pace. My mouth is hanging open and clearly between my teeth I can see a big hunk of broccoli, left over from my pre-gym snack, snagged right between my two front teeth.

So: To the health-conscious gentleman who frequents the Planet Fitness on Woodmore Oaks and Sunrise Blvd: All is forgiven.

But on to other things.

One thing I've noticed about being pregnant, Cletus, is that there is a pregnancy club. It's like a country club or having a credit card membership, complete with levels of hierarchy. Regular club members include anyone who has ever known anyone who is pregnant. Silver Club members are women who have been pregnant in the past and share stories (which all seem to involve excessive gas, horrific C-Sections, and epidurals gone terribly wrong). Gold Club members are women who are pregnant right now, just like me. These are the members to watch out for, because they tend to come in two types, in my experience: the first type is normal women who just happen to be pregnant, and the second type is women who were once normal, but upon having become pregnant have now turned into giant walking uteruses.

Type 2 Gold Club members are an interesting breed (hah! pregnancy pun). They are super neurotic. Depending on what mood I'm in and how judgy I'm feeling, I find them difficult to relate to. They all seem to be obsessed with eating exclusively organic foods and researching doulas and water births because they just watched The Business of Being Born. They are already buying appliances to make home-made baby food with produce bought entirely from the local farmer's market, and plan to give their children all-natural wooden toys to play with, to limit their babies' exposure to the potential chemicals found in plastic toys that are made in China.

I have a grudging admiration for Type 2 Gold Club members, because of their dedication to being healthy for their baby, during and after pregnancy. But I know myself too well to think I would ever try to emulate them because I'd fail miserably. I can see myself trying to make my own baby food from scratch. I'd give it a half-hearted attempt and then feed my 8-month old mac-n-cheese with cut-up hotdogs, full of nitrates. But please don't judge me too harshly Type 2s; in thirty years your kids will probably all be Rhodes scholars while my baby will be busy finding new paint fumes to sniff. Have fun huffing, Cletus.

I tend to relate more to the Type 1 Gold Club members - those women whose attitudes seems to be: "Who me? I'm just a normal gal, carrying on a normal life and working my normal job, all except for this huge basketball hidden under my shirt." They're excited and concerned with baby and pregnancy stuff, but they aren't obsessed. And Cletus, before you point it out, yes, I am aware that I'm disparaging people who obsess over pregnancy in a blog that is completely devoted to chronicling my own kid's gestation. Self-awareness! Now I have it.

Love,

Your soon-to-be-mom