Pregnant Envy

For one fleeting moment today, I kinda missed being pregnant.

I said for a moment. Before you call me crazy, hear me out:

I was on my way to visit the doctor. "What kind of doctor?" you ask? Well, Nosey Nelly, I have a friend who calls it "the stirrup doctor" because of a certain apparatus in the exam room, and whenever she says "the stirrup doctor", she lifts one bent leg into the air and touches her toes as if to demonstrate the posture one would assume during the exam. Still confused? I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with "schmynocologist". Still don't know? Go read Perez Hilton. I have no use for you.

I had a 1:00pm appointment, which means I started getting ready at 9:30am. The process of getting myself ready and preparing to take an infant outside the home is a lengthy one. Plus, while some stay-at-home moms are the spend-all-day-at-the-mall type, or the "playgroup" type, I'm more of the home-bound type, so going to the doctor is an occasion that merits getting all dolled up. We're talking hairspray and everything! While getting dressed, I assessed my "fatness". Today I was too fat for my jeans, but slim enough to squeeze on my engagement ring (but not my wedding band). I would gauge that as a successful day. As I'm parking my car at the hospital, I realize I don't have Rob's stroller. Steve took it out of the car last week so he could take Robinson for a stroll through the neighborhood (the jerk). I have a moment of slight panic, trying to imagine how I'm gonna hoof it all the way to my doctor's office on the third floor, lugging 25-30 bulky pounds of baby and car seat while wearing 3.5 inch heels for the first time in about eight months. It's embarrassing to look like you're struggling while trying to haul your own baby. Let's face it, I'm no teacup poodle. I look...beefy...like I could lift a car, and yet I'm huffin' and puffin' and teeterin' and totterin' trying to carry this bulky-ass car seat from my car to the doctor's office. Picture the bear on the unicycle at the circus, and that's me.

So there I am, five minutes later, successfully inside the hospital and aboard the elevator. It's just me (and Rob) and a pregnant lady. She looks wonderful. She's probably six or seven months along--she's very visibly showing, but she hasn't exploded yet. She's wearing a dress and cardigan with a pair of sensible heels. She looks chic and lovely. She's clearly on her way to a prenatal appointment, and I remembered the feeling of going to my own prenatal appointments--the hopefulness, the anticipation--even at it's most mundane, and when it felt like a drudgery, pregnancy is still a special time of excitement about being a sacred vessel who is bringing new life into the world.

Now I'm just a fat chick getting a pap smear.