Thursday, September 18, 2014




Life happens: Pregnancy: Farter for the greater good

By By Aprill Brandon
Sept. 26, 2013 at 4:26 a.m.


So, I'm still pregnant.

I know! I feel like I've been pregnant forever, too. In fact, I'm having trouble remembering a time when I wasn't pregnant.

(Just kidding. I remember all too well. I have nightly lucid dreams in which I drink Scotch and smoke cigars while taking a bath in Diet Coke and stuffing my face with unpasteurized soft cheeses.

In these dreams, I also occasionally end up in a compromising position with the guy who played tuba in my high school marching band, except he has the voice of Morgan Freeman and is secretly Ironman. But I'm blaming the baby's subconscious for that one).

For those of you keeping score at home, I am now officially 18 weeks pregnant. Yup. Not even halfway there yet, folks.

(Interesting side note: Although, medically, I am considered 18 weeks pregnant, technically I've only been pregnant for 16 weeks. For some reason, they count the two weeks before you actually conceive. Why the discrepancy, you ask? Best I can figure, it's a conspiracy that goes all the way to the top of the OB/GYN community. I'm 92 percent sure there is a secret society of vagina doctors somewhere who meet in a creepy torch-lit dungeon, where they trade tips on how to keep their hands freezing cold at all times and have a good laugh over making women with pregnancy brain do bad math).

Of course, I shouldn't be complaining. Now that I'm safely ensconced in the second trimester, its pretty much been smooth sailing, minus some baby-induced flatulence that has both my husband and my dog looking at me in sheer awe.

"Oh my God, that was YOU!? We bow down to your superior farting skills. From hence forth, we shall blame you, our new queen, for our own farts."

And truth be told, pregnancy isn't all that bad, despite my snarky yet HI-larious observations in previous columns to the contrary. I mean, for nine months of misery, you get an entire human being out of the deal, so I mean, I'm not that good at math or anything (see above), but that seems like a fairly decent return on your investment. Especially if you factor in the method of how you actually make a baby, which is generally super fun unless you're doing it very wrong.

Yes, perhaps it's the fact I finally stopped puking or that I'm finally looking "pregnant" as opposed to "just ate her own weight in tacos," but I'm feeling a bit warm and fuzzy these days. Maybe even, dare I say, maternal?

But most likely this change in attitude is because I now have proof of life. Proof that something besides gas and cheeseburgers is living in my ever-growing abdomen. Proof that the violent mood swings are because I'm growing a human and not because I'm crazy ... hahaha ... nope, not crazy. You hear that, honey? I'm not crazy! Chasing you with that hammer because you left the toilet seat up is totally normal, babe! Hahaha! (Voice drops an octave) "BRING ME PICKLE JUICE. NOW."

Yes, I felt the baby, my baby, kick for the first time. There I was, sitting on the couch reading Vogue at six in the morning because I couldn't fall back asleep thanks to my body now thinking getting up before the sun is a daily challenge it must meet. When out of nowhere, BOOM. Or well, more like lower-case boom (considering the kid weighs as much as a chicken breast currently). A tiny flutter followed by what felt distinctly like a poke.

So naturally, I did what any mature, sophisticated woman on the brink of motherhood would do: I ran into the bedroom and jumped on the bed like a little kid to wake my husband.

"I felt the baby kick, honey! I felt the baby kick! Which means we are actually having a baby! Er well, since technically we haven't seen it yet I guess it could be a dragon or something, but the point is, the baby/possible dragon is ALIVE! AHHH!"

I couldn't help myself. At the risk of sounding like a cliche, it was truly one of those life-changing moments. The moment when I realized the magnitude of what was happening: My husband and I had created a person.

I wasn't just farting.

I was farting for a cause.

And while I'm sure I'll go back to complaining and moaning, for now, I'm just going to revel in this moment. This moment where for the first time it feels like we, me and this baby, are in this together.

Aprill Brandon is a columnist for the Advocate. Her column runs every two weeks in the Your Life section. Comment on this story at VictoriaAdvocate.com.

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