People. I cannot even tell you how strange it is to now have a stomach … this full fledged belly.

Where my shirt rides up and my pants are sometimes falling down and I have to hike everything either back up or down. This may be because I have yet to buy maternity clothes. Look, I have a theory about them and it’s not a pleasant one — I am convinced they make us look bigger — bigger, the nerve! — than better.

I first noticed this while trying on a dress that I thought would be perfect come the end of April. Loose and breathable in all the right places. I tried this on a month ago and it made me look gi-nor-mous. Huge. Monstrously, huge. It was no where close to what I really looked like so I immediately gave it the good ‘ol finger and said a couple,  f you’s, while I was at it.

Have I purchased bigger clothing? Of course. But not much. I’m sure you’re wondering, does this mean you keep wearing the same things over and over again? Yes. Prob should not be saying that but, for real! WHO in their right mind wants to go out and spend money on overpriced maternity wear that is cheaply and shit-ily made? Not I.

I already have enough of over priced baby gear to get. The last thing I want to do is buy unflattering clothes that I will hope to never have to wear again.

But, I digress.

My stomach. Or my beer belly. That’s what it feels like when it starts poking out there. I feel like I should be holding a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. I straight up just feel … blahhhhhhhhhh.

I’m officially at that point where there is no mistaking and no hiding and/or sucking in of this stomach. Hell, I’m way passed the sucking in stage. It’s just out there.

I’ve also reached the point where I have to do the side slide out of bed and where it takes me a good 30 seconds to figure out how to roll over to my other side in the middle of the night. It is indeed a very very odd thing to wake up and want to change positions, only to wonder how one is to do that.

This typically involves me leaning an elbow into The BF, thus waking him up and then doing a semi push off from there.

The other day I was asked if I was going to miss my belly post baby. There was not a millisecond of hesitation on my part. It was a resounding and quick, hell no, all the way.

Maybe I will, I’m not there yet so who knows. However, I think I know myself well enough to know that I probably won’t. Is it nice knowing where my baby is at all times and that little babe is safe and sound? That I have more control than I will in the not too distant future? Yes.

But this is also the cycle of life. I’m not meant {thank God} to be carrying a child for more than 40 weeks. Since I view this as a natural circle, I don’t see how there can be much to miss.

I certainly will not miss feeling like I’m being crushed at all times now. Feeling like you can’t get a full breath? Yeah, not my idea of fun. Nor feeling like you simply can’t fit in your body anymore. I’m constantly doing windmills to try to relieve stress and stretch my sides and ribs. Create some sort of fleeting room in there. I don’t think it’s really working.

I had my going-on 36 week appointment yesterday {holy shit 36 WEEKS} and supposedly my fabulous doctor doesn’t think FOH is going to get much bigger — oh just another two pounds — which explains my extreme fatigue as of the last week. I’m talking fatigue that blows first trimester fatigue out of the water — and that’s saying something.

She also thinks the babe is in perfect positioning. Hear that, FOH? Mama says, please don’t move your tiny cute little butt around in there. Stay put! She’s confident FOH won’t turn, because there isn’t anywhere to go at this point.

That had me wanting to ask how that related to my expanding stomach, but I was too afraid to. Too afraid of the possibility of this beer belly getting any bigger. I’d rather keep my Bubble Of Peace in tact and be in denial of further expansion.

I know there’s a lot of women out there who fully embrace and love their baby bumps. They’re all about the belly. I am, obviously and absolutely not one of these. I wish I was. I want to be.

I want to think it’s so wonderful and sexy and beautiful. But I don’t. It’s strange and I just plain don’t feel myself.

And no, it is not fun to gain weight. Of which I have. I don’t want any of you thinking I’m that lone lucky ranger who only gains 10 pounds — speaking of, I’d really like to know how that is even physically possible?! — since I believe my last weight update wasn’t all that much. My body decided to do some catching up after 20 weeks on that front and of course I am relieved that it’s good for the baby and I know it’s normal and necessary but um. Come on.

Find me anyone who enjoys packing on pounds and fat in places they haven’t previously had it before. I straight up almost started to bawl the other day when, in the middle of yoga, doing butterfly pose, I realized that what I felt were fat rolls on my sides.

Rolls, People. ROLLS. It was traumatic, to say the least. Could the rolls be a lot worse? Of course. Would a lot of you think I’m blowing it way out of proportion if you saw what I was talking about? Probably. But we all have a set point for our bodies and know what’s normal and what’s not.

This falls into the not normal for me. Am I worried about it? No. I have a baby to grow for another four weeks. I deserve to be cut some serious slack and I can spend the rest of my life trying to get rid of those rolls, or have them sucked off and out of me.

That’s always a very reassuring thought for me … that if it comes to it, there’s the going under the knife option. Or hell I’m sure at this point there’s tons of non-invasive procedures out there to take care of that. I’ve been wanting to try one or three for cellulite. I see those come up on Groupon all the time … one of these post baby days, I’m going to buy one.

And then tell you all about it.

I also grilled my doctor about things like water breaking and warning signs. From what I gather, it’ll be like peeing on myself, minus the pee smell. Great. Hopefully not in Target, but don’t worry, I won’t hesitate to let you know what aisle if it does occur. Apparently, there are no warning signs. I think that’s pretty unfair of my body. The least it could do is give me a heads up! Seriously now.

My doctor is awesome and I really hope she gets to deliver FOH. I can’t imagine spreading my legs for anyone else and feeling as comfortable as I do with her. She tells me I won’t give a shit come the birthing time, but I’m still vain enough to think that I will. I mean … it’s such an intimate thing. If I think about it, which I try not to, whomever delivers this kid will be seeing parts of me that I’ll never even see.

That might be a good thing. I most likely don’t want those sorts of images in my head. I think it goes without saying — no way I’m going to request a mirror. Lord have mercy! What The BF and I both might never visually recover from.

Pretty incredible to think I’m tentatively, give or take a few days each way, a month away from holding a full fledged living human in my arms. One that we created.

Life is taking on a whole new meaning … and chapter now.