There is no sly way of telling you all my blog reading public which at this point is down to like two folks that check every now and again: I am pregnant. My mom doesn't even read it any more...sad really. Perhaps, I should teach her how to use her new computer. It may help the budding writer inside of me. It takes me back to being 8 or 9 when I used to write short stories and illustrate them. I would sell them to my mom for a dollar so I could go to the corner 7-11 and buy penny candies. In those days, by which I mean the eighties, there were multiple shelves of candy and as you got higher the more expensive it was. The lowest shelf was all a penny, then the one above was five cents, the one above that one was ten cents...you get the idea. A dollar would go a long way.
I digress. I am almost 5 months into my pregnancy. My baby is the size of a mango. I get this information weekly from the IPhone apps that I have. What I question about these fruity comparisons is the selection process. Do they look up fruit and vegetable averages in order to make their assertions about the weekly baby size or are they just making it up? For example, last week the baby was the size of a sweet potato. Sweet potatoes are a bit awkward and longish while this weeks mango, is round and shortish. Did my baby shrink? Did it curl up?
Being pregnant has been great. I really have enjoyed it thus far and have little to complain about. The one overwhelming, unshakable, bizarrely indescribable thing about being pregnant is the cognitive recognition that you have a real life inside of you. A person is just hanging out inside of you. There are moments that I wish I had his or her number or email so I could be sure that they are doing well in there. Any day now, according to the literature, I should be feeling movements. A flutter. A tap. That will be nice. A physical: "Hey Mom! All clear!"