When I went to the OB on Thursday, they weighed me, as they always do. I’d gained eight pounds in two weeks. And my belly had turned from a 35 centimeter watermelon to a 40 centimeter beach ball. Well, it would be a beach ball, if beach balls were filled with lead.

I’d told Doug all week that I could swear I felt the babies growing. Turns out I wasn’t making that up. I really was feeling them grow. A lot. Which is of course good for them … and horrible for my back.

Luckily, I still have my baby hugger lift. Of course, it’s only meant to support pregnant women’s bellies until said women actually have their baby, which most women do by the time they measure 40 centimeters. I, on the other hand, still have (I hope, for the babies’ sake) at least two more weeks in which the babies – and my belly – can grow.

I don’t think the baby hugger’s up for it.

On Friday, Doug came into the bedroom while I was dressing. I had on my undies, a camisole, and the girdle part of my baby hugger. He laughed out loud. “I’m going to miss this,” he said.

“Miss what? Mocking me?” I fastened the velcro-and-elastic suspenders under my belly.

“That too.”

I made a sour face at him and pulled the suspenders over my shoulders and down to my belly. It was a bit of a stretch, even for the elastic. When I fastened the suspenders to the girdle, the velcro didn’t hold. The suspenders flew up and hit me in the face.

Doug laughed again. “Yep,” he said, “I am really going to miss this.”

Let’s just say I’m not. Pregnancy is humiliating enough without having to deal with vengeful undergarments.


P.S. On a completely unrelated note, over on the fiction page, I’ve posted a new story, “Purple Hyacinth.” I’d love to hear what you think.