FIVE MONTHS and BLOOMING
Am I dreaming? Is this big ball between breasts and undies really incubating my baby?? Here I am, in my second trimester of pregnancy and still reeling from disbelief. I am PREGNANT!!! And by jove, it is visible now! A full fortnight has past that I have become obviously pregnant (and not just tuberose round the middle to the passerby). A full fortnight of working in the office, regaling in maternity attire, rejoicing in my pregnancy, waddling ever so slightly and taking to rubbing this Buddha belly just for the heck of it…
We’ve hit a milestone this week: the Seahorse is now 20 weeks young, floating about on its already strong back in situ where I hope and pray all the nourishment I stuff into my cake-hole is transported direct to its waiting tummy. And the Seahorse grows and grows.
Already 300 grams and 7cm long, this Seahorse is the size of a banana! As for me, I have gained 6kg already. I grow fat as a spring lamb, thrilled to be eating enough for the nation. In fact, I have now topped 60kg. Indigestion and bloating, wind and gas aside, I am feeling marvelous and energized beyond self-recognition.
Daily rituals I keep, and these I maintain for my sense of self-identity as well as for the feeling of euphoria they provide me. Exercise is in my bones and yes, I have cut down on it markedly (no more half marathons nor hour-long swim squads). I kind of had to (for fertility’s sake!) give in to doctor’s orders to stop the intense training. And so to a gentler form of exercise I sought comfort. Twice-daily walks (to and from the office) and as I approached the fifth month, half-hour swims, during the balmy Dubai evenings.
For the first time since living in Dubai, I feel extremely hot throughout the night, something I thought would never happen to me considering Erroll turns the air conditioning to arctic levels and I have, in all our past together, been obliged to wear fleecy hoodies in the home and fluffy pyjamas to bed. Now that I nurture our Seahorse, my metabolism, hormones, and weight has shifted up a gear. (Still I cannot help by snuggle up as close as this belly allows to my big cub, Erroll, each night!)
Climbing in bed is easy; I love sleep! Getting out of bed is another matter. And at least 6 times per night Erroll hears the shuffle of my slippered feet en route to the loo. For I am now answerable to this every-filling bladder of mine. How hard is it getting to get out of bed? Very. No longer am I nimble; this stomach region most certainly will not bend and flex to my will any longer. What to I do now? (1) Roll over onto my side so I’m facing the edge of the bed; (2) groan and whine so that Erroll rouses from his slumber; (3) receive a very welcome and gentle nudge till my legs dangle over the side then (4) propel myself into a sitting position. I am finally up and off I muddle for yet another visit to the loo.