“Turn on the radio and sway to the music. With her sense of movement well developed by now, your baby can feel you dance.”
Psh. I don’t know about any of the other 23 weeks-pregnant ladies, but I sure as hell don’t feel like dancing. I’m exhausted. It could be something to do with the dental headaches and the pain medication, or it could be the enormous weight hanging off the front of my body. I’m only five feet tall so I look kind of like a pre-teen girl carrying a a yoga ball. With boobs. Gigantic, sore, possibly alien boobs.
I have enough materal instinct to know that water will help with the weight-carrying issues. I dream of swimming pools and private bathrooms for every public facility. I need to get into the water, but I am sketchy on using a public pool, especially to wallow like a dead hippo. I’m considering buying one of those larger inflatable pools and setting it up in my basement. Then I can swim naked. …What? You think I’m going to buy a maternity bathing suit? Not on your life, honey. I look like a red zebra. With boobs. And a yoga ball.