It’s 34 weeks, and I look like a walking eggplant.  My feet hurt, my neck aches, and I just feel tired.  I’m having trouble sleeping, mainly because I wake up with a dull pain radiating from my hip and ribs from the sheer heaviness of lying on my side.  Then I get up, and my feet hurt from the sheer heaviness of being upright.  One of my life savers has been floating about in the pool at our house-sitting location – aaaahhhh… the weightlessness!  But with all this heavy, slow, and dull feeling, I’ve allowed myself to become quite frumpy – and my eyebrows have suffered the most.  Not least because I can’t get close enough to the mirror to see what I’m doing – thanks again to the eggplant effect.  Actually, I will rather sheepishly admit that for all of my married life, it’s been Dave who actually grooms my eyebrows.

What started as a novelty for him, and huge leap of faith for me when we were engaged became his full-time job because he was surprisingly good at it.  After a few tips from me in the early days, he’s managed to deftly sculp and shape my eyebrows to near perfection.  With pregnancy however, my pain recepters became more sensitive, and I banned him from touching them, instead preferring to do a quick tidy up myself as the need arose.  Enough was enough however when recently I was shocked by the appearance of my neglected and furry forhead.  Not having the stamina, or patience myself, I once more sidled up to Dave and winningly requested he make me look like a human again (as opposed to a rotund yeti).

I patiently lay uncomfortably on my back under a light, breathing deeply to counteract the large baby inside that crushed my lungs while Dave spent quite a considerable length of time working his magic.  Nervousness threatened to overwhelm me a couple of times as I thought he seemed to be plucking an awful lot, but I quickly reassured myself that it was long overdue, and he’d always done a lovely job.  And so I barely glanced at them later in the mirror, and went to sleep satisfied that I would no longer look like some feral Dave had found foraging in the wilderness.

The next day dawned bright and clear, and I thought to check out Dave’s good work.  I stared in the mirror, then looked again, before I said – as evenly and calmly as I could – “You plucked down the arches of my eyebrows.”  Quite proudly Dave said, “Yes!  I flattened them for you!”  An explanation from me followed which was, I fear,  not so even and calm, that I’m supposed to have arches.  Women love to have arches.  I have – or had – very nice natural arches.  And he better hope they grow back!

I’m not sure what possessed him to suddenly change  techniques and remove the top half of my eyebrows, and I don’t know that I ever will find out, but I really can’t complain can I?  I have a lovely husband who actually plucks my eyebrows!  Not to mention grooms my toenails – and that was even before I couldn’t reach them on my own.  I think when he comes home from work, I’ll give him a big hug and kiss and tell him how wonderful I think he is.  Better yet, I think I’ll go and have lunch with him.

Well recently I’ve been experiencing the increasingly “wonderful” sensations of our rapidly growing baby’s movements.  At 18 weeks, I felt a sickening, slithering sensation inside which gave me mental images of eels sliding through silty mud.  By about 25 weeks this had given way to amusing bumps and thumps – my favourite being the time I was lying on my side, and experienced what I can only describe as a heavy thud.  Again, it prompted a mental image – this time it was of a pro wrestler leaping from the guard rails to body slam his prostrate opponent.  Other interesting sensations have been experienced too – such as sharp jabbing pains in unmentionable areas, and the feeling that my bladder is being poked at from the inside (because it is), thus causing an urgent feeling of panic as I put my pelvic floor muscles to work whilst anxiously scanning my surroundings for the nearest bathroom.  This isn’t good when driving on the freeway as happened to me one day that junior was having a seriously great time exploring the walls of my bladder – repeatedly.

We are now almost at week 33 and the not-so- little guy’s movements are now encroaching into the “seriously uncomfortable” zone.  My last OB appointment revealed, that like a good little fellow, he’s already head down, blissfully unaware that this will make his crushing and bewildering entry into a bright, cold world a little easier.  This also means his feet are merrily kicking away in the upper section of my abdomen, looming ever closer to my rib cage.  I’ve been informed by many, many mothers that what really hurts is when they gouge their little feet and toes under the rib cage.  Ludicrously, they also speak of it with a look of pure joy on their faces.  Having never had a baby before, I still am bewildered by the sheer number of women talking of pain, vaginal tears, stitches, hemorrhoids, marathon labours, and emergency cesareans with a grin on their face, before finishing with words to the effect of “it’s a wonderful experience”.  Perhaps it’s the drugs.

But anyways, as I was saying – feet, close to ribs…  Even though he’s not quite big enough yet to get under my ribs, there are still times that a stray foot causes incredible pain.  There I’ll be, walking through a shopping centre, minding my own business when suddenly, without warning, I’ll let out an involuntarily gasp as a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my abdomen.  I’ll instinctively grasp at the area, only to feel a tiny, seemingly innocent body part jutting outwards.  I may mutter words such as “Horrible, little beastie!”, but actually, all is forgiven.  There’s something “cute” about it.  And if Dave’s around, I’ll hurry him over to feel it too.  And hiccups.  Sometimes this creature inside will have up to three bouts of hiccups in a day, once again prompting me to get an indulgent Dave to “come and feel this”. Again.  For the third time today…

Dave must have got tired of all this sitting about “feeling the belly” because the other day, as I once again ushered him over to “feel this”, instead of cupping one hand over my now swollen abdomen, he cupped both hands into a crude megaphone against my stomach, before leaning over and shouting, “HELLOOOO!!!”.  Once I recovered from my surprise, I laughed and said, “You know, he can hear us talking by now.”  To which Dave replied “Oh, can he?”.  I pondered upon this before answering, “Well, not anymore…”