Taken on Sunday, April 13, 2008, I was 27 weeks, 6 days pregnant.
Max was born the following Thursday.
My whole life, I looked forward to being pregnant. As much having a baby, I wanted the pregnancy to go with it. In high school, my little paunchy belly (ha!) was, in my 16 year old eyes, my biggest physical flaw. In pregnancy, I figured, that would be replaced by a glorious baby bump and I could flaunt my amazing shape.
When we found out I was pregnant, about a month before our first anniversary, we were thrilled. I'd sit as still as I could on the couch, trying to feel the baby, even though he was barely a grain of rice.
I indulged every craving; I never craved anything specific or weird, but had what we came to call “monkey cravings,” I'd see a commercial or read about a food and would need it. Immediately. Monkey see, monkey want. I stopped at the local Cheesesteak Shop every day on my way home from work to get a chicken & cheese sandwich as a snack.
I loved being pregnant. I didn't get morning sickness, just had to sleep more… I fell asleep on the couch in the middle of a Superbowl party! Watching myself grow, knowing the amazing things happening… I devoured books and blogs about baby's development, what I could be doing to help the baby do his very best.
I loved the anticipation. Jamie and I at the “big” ultrasound; the tech asked, “Do you want to know the gender?” and Jamie pointing at the screen, saying “Duh! I can see his schmekel!” and tearing up the first time I heard Jamie say the words “my son”
I felt amazing for my entire pregnancy. Until I didn't. But that isn't what this is about. (ETA: If you're interested in reading Max's birth story, you'll find it here)
I love baby bumps.
All of them.
Big ones, little ones, lumpy ones, smooth ones.
Singletons and triplets, stretch marky and seemingly airbrushed perfect-looking ones.
And I'd love to see yours!
It's open all week!