Ah, summer…is there ever a time more ripe for unhealthy comparison? Is my kid drinking more pool water than his kid? Is that damp feeling on my capris actually visible butt sweat?Does my thigh pudge ooze between the straps of the lawn chair that way? Are my sunglasses darker than those so she doesn’t know I’m staring at her thigh pudge?
As if there isn’t enough to obsess over in a season where we all run around in various stages of undress, I found something brand new over the weekend: adorable pregnant ladies in bikinis with nary a stretch mark, sunning ridiculously cute bellies reminiscent of a basketball in a perfect silken backpack. Or a frontpack, as it were.
Oh adorable, silk-bellied pregnant ladies, you can bite my tube of astonishingly worthless stretch mark cream. Pregnancy was not kind to me. After spending several months looking like I’d just been getting a little fierce with the Ho Ho’s, I settled into a large blob shape, not unlike what you see floating over Superbowls and monster truck rallies. Both of my boys chose to travel as high as they could, eventually trying to wedge an ankle or two into my throat. It wasn’t comfortable, not terribly fun, and it was anything but cute.
So this is why I looked at these bikin’ed, baby bumped moms-to-be with fascination, curiosity, and a (big heaping) dash of jealousy. Pregnancy looks absolutely glorious when you’re them. I have a difficult time picturing these women grunting involuntarily each time they sit down or rise up, and I just can’t imagine that they’ll ever get to the point, with ten weeks to go, that they have to resort to wearing tents and bags because all of their maternity clothes aren’t maternity enough. And I certainly don’t see them alternately Googling “home labor starters” and begging for access to the neighbor’s trampoline in those interminable last weeks. What becomes of these women after they give birth? Do they leave the hospital in their skinny jeans in time to hit Zumba? Do their babies come out in sweet smelling white cotton jammies and ask where they can lay down and sleep through the night?
The comforting thing is that I’ve known a few babies in my day. A couple of my own, and a slew of others. And the answer is, thank the gods, that perfect basketball bellies still hold babies. Babies can be compared too, but rest assured they’re all going to have a great deal in common.
Unless you manage to avoid touching it for two years or so, at some point or another a baby will throw up on you. Probably in public. It may look vaguely like something you just fed them, or it may be exactly what you just fed them, returned to your t shirt in its original, untouched form.
Even if you’re some sort of diapering wizard, in all likelihood you will experience at least one diaper failure as a parent. Because of its highly unpleasant nature it’s not necessary to go into detail here, but every parent will have an experience, nearly impossible to erase from the memory, involving unthinkable substances and the upending of all accepted rules on logic and gravity. Your definition of gross will become unrecognizable from the one you held onto in your previous life.
And, it is a sure thing that you will begin casually saying things that in any other context would get you committed. Things like, “We will not eat lotion again” and “If you put that in your nose, Santa will never bring you another Ewok.” Ocassionally you will catch yourself and note the absurdity, but more often you will only feel relief that you got the message across before someone lost an eye.
Now that I think about it, the next time I’m at the pool, instead of enviously wondering why some women get to be so freaking darling during pregnancy, maybe I’ll offer one of them a compliment and a tall glass of lemonade. She might need a few extra highlights when it’s all said and done.
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