There are certain indisputable facts of life:

1. People get older.
2. Dogs lick themselves in really awkward places.
3. Going to any Wal-Mart on a Saturday afternoon will result in an encounter with at least two beings that could be extra-terrestrials.
4. Pregnant women gain weight.

I have, as of late, been feeling the full effects of number 4. (Number 3 is no longer a problem for me, because I refuse to go to Wal-Mart on Saturdays for ANY reason since the obese man with no shirt and overalls asked me to help him find his missing overall strap.) But weight gain has been an issue that I can’t avoid, and I must say that although it is natural and expected, it doesn’t make it any easier.

It’s not even that I’ve gained that much weight for a pregnant person, but it really does a number on your self esteem to go to the doctor, stand on the scale, and have the nurse move the weights up, and up, and up with an evil little smirk on her face that says “I’m glad it’s you and not me”. I regularly go swimming at the YMCA, and each time I walk to the pool from the locker room, I pass the mirrors and think, “Oh cute- someone is wearing a  polka-dotted pool float to the pool”. Then I look down and realize that the polka-dotted float is not a float at all, but my own midsection, round and inflated. Call it what you want: smuggling a watermelon, swallowing a basketball, inserting a tire pump into your belly button, whatever- it isn’t the beautiful glow I expected it to be. Lots of women in these books I’ve read describe pregnancy as a deep connection to the earth and humanity, and that they’ve never felt more beautiful than when they have a life inside of them. I feel like Fat Albert after a half-off special at Golden Corral.

I really miss my feet. I can’t see them when I stand up. I can’t reach them when I sit down. I have to get Chris to help me take off my shoes. If I end up in a reclining position for any reason, someone has to help me get out of it. If I try to squat down, I have to grunt and pull up on something to stand upright again like some kind of crippled manatee. It’s all a very humbling experience.

And it isn’t like regular weight gain. With regular weight gain, you can take a long look in the mirror and say, “Gee- I need to go to the gym, or lay off the sodas, or remove all those lard shakes from my breakfast menu”. And you can theoretically do those things and theoretically lose the weight. You can be in control of the situation. With pregnancy weight, you can sort of exercise (yoga in chairs, anyone?) provided that the exercises don’t require you to bend, touch your feet, or get your heart rate up, eat nothing but rabbit food (because everyone knows a rabbit’s favorite desert is Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked Ice Cream), and try to maintain a healthy lifestyle, but it’s no use- the scale laughs out loud at you each time you step on. It’s a battle you just can’t win. And if I care about my baby at all, I’m not supposed to win it. It’s not about me anymore.

There is no controlling the life growing inside of me. She’s living,  growing, and building the essential parts she needs to become a successful and healthy human, while I’m turning into Shamu’s stunt double. And I guess that’s the worst part about it- not necessarily that I’ve gained weight, but that I can’t control this part of myself. My own body is changing shape and there is not a darn thing I can do about it. But I guess I can say the same thing about my life, can’t I? It’s changing FOREVER and there isn’t a darn thing I can do about it. Chris and I went home to Montgomery this weekend to get some baby stuff from my mom’s house, and as we were crossing over the Alabama River and out of town, it hit us: this would be the last time we ever come to our home town without being parents… PARENTS. It’s a weighty thought. Just ask my scale.

So and so I guess the sacrifices have already begun. For now, it’s my ability to tie my shoes and maintain what I consider an optimal weight. Pretty soon it will be the sacrifice of sleep and changing poop diapers. Later on, I will sacrifice money, time, and who knows what else to make sure she has the best life possible. And I’m okay with that. I love my little baby and I believe already that she is cool enough to be worth any and every sacrifice I have to make on her behalf.

But if you can’t find me one day, just give Sea-World a call- they’ve taken me back to my tank…