My friend Edith arrived from Zurich a few days ago. We haven't seen her for about eight months, which is unusual, usually she's back and forth more frequently.
Edith is a force of nature. She is American and therefore when she talks, all her sentences have exclamation marks.
Also, they are either staccato: "Punctuated.Like.This.Clare!" Or run on as in "No!Idon'tbelieveitClare!"
When she arrived with her little leopard skin wheelie suitcase ( she loves animal prints and black. This is the look for Force Of nature type people ) she took one look at me and said:
"Clare! Are.You.Pregnant?! OhmigoshWhereisit?! ...Youjustlookbloated!!"
Then she took out her mobile phone and took these snaps:
It's true that it's not an impressive bulge. And yet I can't stand being on my feet for longer than a few minutes.
A woman down the road is as pregnant as me and ginormous. Yet she can skip around as merrily as a little mountain goat.
I, on the other hand, with my 'Is she pregnant, or just bilious?' bulge, am waddling around like the Hofmeister bear on prosthetic legs.
I am greatly afflicted with varicose veins, one particular horror really feels as though it's at bursting point. I am doubly afflicted by the torment of surgical stockings, which may be worse than the problem they are meant to relieve. The elastic, the heat, the itch. Aargh! It's like wearing a hair shirt, only on my legs.
And whenever my knees are ever so slightly bent, it's as though there is a rope behind them where all the elastic rucks up.
Still. I have nary a stretch mark and can still sneeze daintily without, um...you know.
So I haven't experienced Total Physical Wipeout (yet).
And still, it thrills me to weepiness to remember that all this is owing to a brand new soul waiting to make his or her debut.
So I'm not really complaining, just venting a little. That, and thinking that I'd like to document something of my pregnancy here before it's all over.