PREGNANCY DIARY VOL. IV: THE SIXTH MONTH

By Ellen Seidman

I think I'm in pregnancy denial. This month (I'm in my sixth now), Dave and I decided to go to California wine country for a three-day weekend. We had a great time in Sonoma -- I gleefully horrified some little old lady by guzzling a half-glass of Cabernet at a winery -- and then we took the red-eye home Monday night so I could go to work Tuesday. I never feel great after an overnight flight (who the hell does?) but this time my body ached as though I'd been through a blender, and my feet were so swollen I could barely shove them back into my shoes. What WAS I thinking? Time to acknowledge that my body just isn't its usual indefatigable, intrepid self. As Dave told me, "Act your belly, not your brain!"

I did something else on the irrational side the other day, though at the time I thought it was a smart idea. This department store was having a layette sale, and I didn't feel like shelling out money for both boy and girl clothes, since we don't know what we're having. So, I went to the store, picked out neutral outfits as well as some boy and girl stuff, then had my doctor's office call the saleswoman and tell her the baby's sex. I walked away, she rang up the appropriate items and hid them from my sight, then I went back and paid; the stuff will stay in storage at the store till after the baby's born. Now it's driving me crazy that the Bloomingdale's salesperson knows the sex of our baby and I don't. I've taken to feeling up my belly like it's a Magic 8 ball to see if I can get any read on the gender. Nope. Nada.

Finally, we're getting some actual job training: We took a baby class a couple of weeks ago, a marathon Saturday one since we're not the type to commit to a bunch of sessions. I worried that Dave might feel overwhelmed or worse, bored. But he seemed pretty into everything. He was especially fascinated by the discovery that after you deliver the baby, you have a separate placenta delivery. We watched it happen, in all its gory detail, in a film that should have been rated G for Gross (I'm realizing I'm more squeamish than I suspected). "You're going to have to deliver the placenta," he kept chanting to me in a whisper. He's going to be quite the mature parent, huh? Then the nurse teaching the class discussed pain medication and Dave innocently said, "Honey, are you sure you want an epidural?" At which point I snapped, "Honey, I'm not delivering this baby if I don't get one" and that shut him right up.

Later, the instructor asked the moms- and dads-to-be to break into separate groups, then we had to list the things we love about pregnancy and what's been bugging us. Funny, but us future moms had no trouble coming up with the stuff that bugs us: weight gain, fatigue, stretch marks (I've already got a few purple squiggles no cocoa butter will cure). But we struggled to find good things to say about pregnancy, past the obvious fact that we were creating a child. Finally, one woman said, brightly, "Your fingernails grow faster!" Boy, if our fetuses heard us being so lame they would have probably demanded transfers.

I guess it is hard to articulate just how incredibly miraculous this whole process is. Growing a baby sometimes makes me feel like I'm the eighth wonder of the world. As if gazillions of other women haven't had kids! Some days, I wish I could have a Baby Cam inside my stomach so I could flick on a screen and see what the little tyke is up to. I have my suspicions: I think this kid's practicing to be a boxer. I feel it all the time -- a quick jab to the right, uppercut, punch, punch, punch! Repeat! Keep at it, champ. I love every move you make.


Ellen Seidman is currently editor-at-large (and getting larger and larger) of Glamour magazine. She has written for many magazines, including Redbook, Fitness, Parents and YM.

   Top

Great Stuff

Playskool Busy Basics Busy Ball Choo Choo

See all Product Reviews in this category