Even better than the justified hording of nesting, is the end of pregnancy. Despite all of the enthusiastic roundhouses, writhing and high kicks, nothing about the baby is quite real yet. Just like every other overdue person in the history of the planet, I am positive that I will be the first to be permanently pregnant. This will last forever. The baby is never coming out. I will always waddle and have to make a lucky lasso toss to get my socks over my toes.
I can’t wait to meet the little bugger; I just don’t think it is ever going to happen. It hasn’t given me any signs that ze is interested in coming out of his private dojo. Like the semi-celebrity in the popular video game commercials, I know Alien only by its dance moves. How could ze be real when I have no idea what ze looks like?
It is a fabulous game to imagine how eerily strange ze could look, with the guaranteed cone head and skin blotches and absurd proportions, and how we will pay no interest to the monstrous side of the baby. We will be amused by the funniest of the faces and be so in love that ze will be perfect. The world’s most gorgeous child. And even if we were capable of being objective, how could we possibly decide which of the two pale, large foreheads or bad eyesight ze had inherited? We will adore all of it’s hideous malfunctions – backed-up bowels, projectile excretions and inabilities to operate the simplest of limbs.
Despite the Alien’s lack of skills in real-life scenarios, it has struck a wonderful deal with me. If it can perpetually kick and punch me, it will at least ride lower in my pelvis. When the baby shifts down lower, it’s called “lightening.†Indeed! Now that ze has found a perfect niche to fall into without applying as much pressure to any of my vital organs, I care less about the discomforts and annoyances and can focus more on the Santa Clause of meeting the hidden creature. I know ze’s not real, couldn’t be real, nothing so absurd could be real or coming down my chimney. But buying diapers for the pretend unicorn sure is fun. Just imagine if someday there really was a tiny butt in those diapers! Impossible!
It’ll never happen. This golden age of lightened pregnancy will last forever, almost as good as the second trimester of energy and creative juices. No matter how disphoric this strange and bloated body is, the simplicity of it will not end. There will be no labor, and no sleep-deprived first three months. The name options that we have picked out will remain sparkly notions and the cozy idea of grandmothers and aunties presenting knitted outfits will not crumble under the stress of endless house guests on the back of perineal stitches.
As I grow more excited to meet the Alien, the more certain I am that it can stall longer than Partner touching up his eye make-up before leaving the house. I mean, really, if any of us had a warm, dark, quiet, free-of-charge place all to ourselves, who would give it up? Ze is never coming out. Ze and I will just stay in this state of ease and automation forever. The cramps will never begin.
