We all know pregnancy does weird and irreversible things to the body. I got back to my pre-wedding weight recently, but having babies has changed the shape of my body. No matter how much weight I lose, my clothes just don't seem to fit the same way.
And then there's my navel. I used to have a nice bellybutton. I had a little belly ring, which took all the courage I could muster (in addition to being an anti-dentite, I'm not big on getting poked with needles). But, my bellybutton popped out like an indicator on a Thanksgiving turkey very early in pregnancy. And it was huge. It looked like I had a golf ball embedded in my abdomen. And it was off-center. It poked out to the left.
My bellybutton was a constant source of embarrassment during my first pregnancy. I was working in an office downtown. People stared at my navel in the elevator. People knew it was me walking down the street because they saw the enormous growth. Kids pointed at it and asked, "What's that?!" I'm not kidding. I tried putting a Bandaid on it to hold it down, but that was like trying to stop Niagara Falls with one sandbag. Next, I tried an Ace bandage, but that just added bulk to the protrusion. Duct tape was not very comfortable. I finally resorted to buying non-maternity skirts with elastic waistbands and strategically positioning them over my bellybutton. As long as the skirt stayed in position (which was about 50% of the time), the effect of my bionic bellybutton was minimized. My navel never returned to its former glory. I miss my bellybutton.
But, the effect of pregnancy on the mind is equally strange. I have a friend who craves bricks when she's pregnant. All she wants in life is to take a big bite out of a brick and chew on it. I have another friend who was nauseated by the color orange. Driving through a construction zone was like a mine field. She dry-heaved her way past the pylons, work trucks, and reflective vests.
The latest thing with me is reading. I've been wanting to read a book I bought months ago called Confessions of an Ugly Step-Sister. But, for some reason, the thought of reading a work of fiction overwhelms me with nausea more than the smell of onions. I can read autobiographies. I can read political commentaries. I can read Uncle John's Bathroom Reader. I just can't read fiction. Even thinking about it right now is making me gag a little.
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