by Margaret Bartlett

Created on: January 13, 2010

Women the world over claim to spend nine months glowing , gracefully moving around while playfully running their fingers through the newly hormonal lushes locks of hair. A truly beautiful picture... If it were true! I spent nine months fanning my ruby red face that had puffed up so much I could have been mistaken for a bee swarm victim. Looking as though I had just finished running a marathon, my cheeks glowed with a red hue that would have made airport traffic control jealous and the only hair that seemed to be growing lusciously on me was a thin line that ran from my belly button to my pubic area. It had been so long since I had been able to check for any other sign of lushes hair growth that if it weren’t for a red warning tape hanging from one hip to the other and protected species sign set up by Greenpeace, I would have questioned whether that body part was still there. 

Far from the traditional voluptuous curves most envisage when describing a pregnant woman, I had a rear that you could have landed a jet plane on and practiced three point turns with. My breasts had gone from hello underarms to hello belly button. The only underwear that stayed up were the ones I had added the extra side panel of double sided tape to and to add insult to injury I had developed a waddle that was so obvious I feared at any moment I would start quacking and growing feathers, I’m almost positive that an alert for children and the elderly was posted whenever I went shopping suggesting that for their own safety they should avoid the pregnant woman waddling her up way aisle 7.

For months I had to endure the Buddha belly rubs. Far from being lucky the poor rubbers had the fear of being sucked up the volumes of fat that protruded out front that some insisted on calling a baby bump. With the consistency of quick sand, I could picture future archaeologists unearthing treasures of the belly, devoting a series of documentaries to it. Little old ladies nervously eyed me as I moved past them, children recoiled in horror and men cringed before looking at their partner with a look of horror as they realised that one day this would be them. On the odd occasion they could be seen to grab their hands and with an almost pleading look in their eyes ask nervously whether they really wanted to have children.    

There is only one perfectly acceptable time to call pregnancy beautiful. When you come home to find your heavily pregnant girlfriend or wife sitting in the corner of the room, rocking back and forward mumbling obscenities about swollen feet, gassy explosions that follow her and food cravings that insist she mix peanut butter and spaghetti bolognaise together for breakfast. When she finally sees that you have entered the room and she tearfully looks up at you and asks if she looks like the beached whale you had watched on the documentary channel last night, then and only then you should reply with nothing more than “Pregnancy makes you look absolutely beautiful”.

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