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.