You know that game you play where you come up with the title of your autobiography? Like, for example, a few years ago, mine would have been “Why Yes, I Will Have a Fifth Glass of Wine.” Or maybe “And That’s Why I’m Not Allowed Back Into Delaware.” Or even perhaps “The $8.23 In My Checking Account & Other Numbers That Make Me Sad.”
Ah, but how all that was a lifetime ago. Because currently, the working title of my memoir is:
“So, How’s the Pregnancy Going?”
This question is pretty much my life now. Because when you are pregnant, you as a human person no longer exist. You are simply a fetal cheeseburger delivery system wrapped up in a sweaty muumuu. All anyone cares about now is 1. How is the baby doing? (Answer: Fantastic minus the fact she’s kicking my bladder like it owes her money) and 2. When will the baby get here? (Answer: Hopefully before I get to a size that includes my own personal gravitational pull).
Not that I can blame people for only caring about the baby right now. Creating life is a fascinating process. A fascinating, farty, sausage-fingery process. Think about it. Humans go from an egg and a sperm to a mango-sized tadpole who drinks his own pee to a 7-pound ninja who uses your ribs as substitutes for board breaking. I mean, who cares that I have hopes and dreams and fears and regrets and deep thoughts about how a universal love of melted cheese unites all of humanity. None of that matters. Because you don’t care. Because in your eyes I’m just a loud, messy-haired incubator for an adorable infant.
So, to answer your question, the baby is doing great and I have finally entered my third trimester.
THE THIRD TRIMESTER, PEOPLE!
Which means I’m almost done!
Only 8,712 more days to go.
Give or take.
And now that I can see the tiny, tiny light at the end of the birthing canal, I can officially start daydreaming about what it will be like when I’m finally not pregnant anymore. Coming up with my Not Knocked Up Bucket List, if you will. Because when you are pregnant, you can’t have any fun. In fact, there are panels of doctors whose only job is to just sit around all day thinking up new ways to make sure pregnant women can’t have any fun.
And so, here are all the things I’m going to do when I’m not pregnant:
Sleep on my stomach. Oh, sweet, sweet patron saint of mattresses, I’m going to sleep on my stomach SO HARD.
Enter a hotdog eating contest. I don’t even really like hotdogs. I just want to eat 74 of them because I can’t right now.
Drink coffee until I’m physically vibrating so hard that I defy the laws of physics and can pass through walls. And then I will bathe in a bathtub filled with Red Bull.
Ride a goddamn rollercoaster while eating day-old gas station sushi. Because I can, bitches.
Drink all the alcohol. All of it. And then when I’m done, I’m gonna finish your beer.
Drink all the Diet Coke. All of it. And then when I’m done, I’m gonna add some Captain Morgan to your Diet Coke and drink that.
Finally dye my hair any color other than its current shade of “Awkward Warm Honey Orange-ish With Four Inches Of Dark Brown Roots Showing.”
Throw all those stupid, ineffective Tylenol pills into a ceremonial fire during a Black Mass and fill my medicine cabinet with Nyquil and Claritin and Ibuprofen and Aleve and Pepto and Unisom and Benadryl and all the pretty, pretty over-the-counter drugs available to modern man so we never have to actually feel symptoms of anything.
Eat cold cuts in a hot tub. Which sounds gross. And probably will be gross. But who cares? I’m free!