Standing in front of my closet each morning might be the worst part of my day.
When I was pregnant with Leah, my students asked me if I was pregnant in September, when I had just managed to stick my toes into the second trimester. I felt huge, but realistically I was in that awkward phase where you wouldn't know I was pregnant unless you had a side-by-side comparison of how skinny I had been three months before.
Now, each day I face the challenge of finding attire that effectively hides the large canteloupe that is growing under my shirt from nosy, personal-space-invading kids. Kids who thought I looked pregnant when I ate too many Christmas cookies at the beginning of December.
Yes, it's out there, this belly of mine. And so's my secret.
Not to the kids, thankfully. Just a few select members of the staff who are keeping track all too closely of how often I have to pee. Yep - that happened.
No less than three random strangers have commented on my belly. Asking questions like, do you know what you're having? Have you felt the baby move yet? I don't have the heart to tell them that, despite all evidence to the contrary, the baby is approximately the size of a pea.
I'm starting to have some serious concerns over how many are hanging out in there, too. Not only am I huge, but I'm feeling very, very pregnant. All the symptoms I had last time seem to be amplified this time around. Or maybe I'm just not as tough as I was.
Nausea? Last time around I definitely had it. It was more like things that I smelled or was around would make me gag, but I only once got to the point of being physically sick. This time, my stomach literally twists and rolls and does a little dance that brings me to the brink of running to the toilet. I haven't lost it yet and I hope to keep it that way, but I still have a ways to go on the not-hurling front.
But here's the thing: I also had some very tiny spots of blood in my underware.
And with them came the right perspective.
Because there is nothing - nothing - in the world as wonderful and blessed as having absolutely no clothes that fit and a stomach that feels as if I'm standing on the U.S.S. Arizona in the middle of a hurricane. You couldn't pay me enough money to take away this imsureimgonnahurl feeling.
The little things? They just don't matter. If the kids find out, so be it. If I throw up 15 times a day for the next 5 months? I'll take it. What matters is this little life that is still, thankfully, growing inside me. And with a little luck and a lotta prayer, I'll still be saying that in August.
And the odds are good that I still won't have any clothes that fit. :)