I need to buy new bras. My boobs have been huge pretty much since day 1, thanks to the progesterone injections I was on up until week 9. They’re less sore than they were in those days, but just the thought of wearing one of my regular bras at this point makes me cringe. I’ve been wearing sports bras for weeks and weeks, but it might be nice to have a decent bra that doesn’t just smoosh my boobs against my rib cage. Is 14 weeks too early to buy a maternity bra?
My skin is super-dry. Probably in part because I need to be drinking more water. But when my day is broken up into hour-long home visits, with 15 minute breaks to get from point A to point B, drinking more water means spending most of my day with a painfully full bladder.
I’m not very good at remembering things like putting on lotion, either, which would be a step in the right direction. I intend to do it and then get busy with something else and forget. The other day, I lifted my shirt as part of a routine check (see below), and noticed tiny, pink cracks in the skin below my belly button. Since then, I’ve been slathering up twice a day.
I’m obsessed. Every time I go to the bathroom, I spend an extra few seconds scrutinizing my profile. Is it bigger than yesterday? Can anyone else see it? Do I want anyone else to notice?
And it’s not just my own belly I’m obsessing over. It seems everywhere I go, I’m no longer confronted with just the giant, waddling, I’m-going-to-squeeze-out-a-baby-any-day-now pregnant bellies. I see them at all stages and can hone in on them from a mile away, like a sixth sense. I’ve been secretly spying on the belly of a coworker, wondering how far along she is, when she’s due, if she only looks bigger than me because she’s had one child already. And yet, my infertile mind set keeps me from actually asking these questions. I still have a hard time imagining myself at any stage of pregnancy beyond where I am now, seeing my own reflection follow the same arc of the women I watch from the corner of my eye at the grocery store.
In the morning, it’s pretty easy to disguise the bump, but by the time I’m ready for bed, my belly is enormous, stretched to its limit with a combination of baby, bloat, and gas. I’m not sure how I feel about it at this point. It’s not the cute, barely-there bump i thought I would have at this stage. To me, it just looks like a little extra weight on top of the Triple P (pre-pregnancy pudge, or PIP, if you prefer post-IVF pudge). I’m trying to embrace it, in the weeks between appointments, as a sign that there really is a baby in there, growing away.
Not that I need the additional reminder. The pelvic bone pain has continued, making even the shortest walk unbearable. I limp along during the day and wince every time I have to shift my weight or stand on one foot while dressing or undressing. It makes me a bit crotchety (pun intended). At least, that’s what I blame my foul mood on these days, rather than admit it’s more likely due to the stress of all the changes that will be happening in the next six months.
Hubby has embraced my changing body (especially the boobs, duh) and continues to marvel at the fact that there is another human being inside of me. There are moments when I marvel, too. Those are the moments when i don’t feel fat, uncomfortable, and disgusting. Those are the moments I feel content. Happy, even.