I’m waddling.
There’s no use denying it.
I can attempt to cover it up and put some real effort into graceful movement, but it’s like holding your breath – you can only do it for so long then it becomes painful and you have to give in to your body.
With the other kids, I cringed when I saw other women waddling. I made mental notes to myself and constantly harrassed Jac to tell me if I was doing the duck – my own version of “Do I look fat?”
With this one, however, I eye the other waddlers with sympathy and compassion. I want to give them nods or small smiles so they know I know what they’re feeling. But they might be creeped out by this, so I don’t.
I am trying to stay calm about it all yet I can’t seem to quiet the voices that ask “If it’s this bad now, what are you gonna feel like at 9 months? With baby number 8?” (Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m just saying . . . ).
For the first time in a long time, I find myself looking forward to Lent. It’s gonna be a good one – imposed penance.
Nice.
