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This post seemed to need a super sexy title, so I decided to go with “Dispatches from Fatty Pregnancyland.”

This past weekend, I attended the bridal shower of one of my college roommates. I was seated at table mostly filled with people I knew. At some point, the subject of possible names for our upcoming bundle of terrifying joy was broached.

“Oh!” said the one woman at the table whom I didn’t know. “You’re pregnant? I couldn’t even tell you’re pregnant. I thought you were just…”

Then her voice trailed off and she looked down busily at her plate of stuffed shells.

“Fat?” I prodded gently, nodding and pausing to shovel in a bite of a large slice of strawberry cake (COME TO ME, TRANS FAT FROSTING CORNER PIECE WITH THE BIG ROSE NO ONE ELSE WANTS). “Yep. I know.”

trans fat cake frosting yum

You people who avoid slices with frosting roses are dead to me.

And it’s true–and just like I predicted and just like last time. My body has done a meritorious job of putting on weight since November (let’s all be polite and keep the exact number to “just somewhere slightly south of 20 pounds” and then forget we read that), but I still just look like a misplaced porn star who got pretty paunchy since her last film.

(If I’m ever an honest-to-goodness porn star, my debut will involve something with great big corner pieces of strawberry cake. I decided this somewhere around my third slice this weekend. It was rather momentous.)

Anyway, no one at the doctor’s office seems very worried about the weight gain, or the lack of pregnancy-looking-ness. Then again, they probably take one look at me during appointments and then bite back remarks, fear as they do that I will club them to death with my Breasts of Hugeness. These nurse practitioners might be medically trained, but they’re not stupid.

For now, I’d settle for just a few more signs of the baby himself. Turns out that I have an anterior placenta this time around, which I understand to mean that the baby has rested himself on his comfy organ of blood supply at the front of my uterus instead of the more common back of the uterus. This also seems to mean that kicks and punches are very muted and difficult to feel.

Or maybe he just needs more, er, strawberries.

P.S. Next post! Will need your help! Adam has decided that since his name, my name, and Aura’s name all consist of four letters, the baby’s should too. Adam’s best suggestion so far is Shiv. I’m going to need some advice. Either that or I’m going to need to find a real shiv to settle the issue. And you know what they say about fatherless boys.

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