Well, here I am. All 19 weeks of me.
I have to admit though. I look much bigger in person. This camera in the mirror thing does not do my belly justice. It’s huge. And it seems to be getting bigger every day. And I’m not positive, but I think I am experiencing actual growing pains. They sort of feel like little jabs of pain when I move around a lot. I would call my doctor, but #1: the pain isn’t that bad, #2: I’m finally in the process of switching doctors, and #3: babycenter.com (my true doctor) says that its normal around this time to feel uncomfortable and a little sore because you’re growing so darn fast. So, I’m gonna just call these growing pains and assume that it just means its about time for another round of maternity pants. Wonderful.
I’m getting to the point now where it is unmistakable that I am pregnant. I don’t really look fat anymore. And my belly is definitely more baby-round than Taco Bell-wide (thank you, Mom, for the maternity jeans and genes…), so even strangers are now noticing that I’m pregnant and that makes me feel like a rock star everywhere I go. The only time this does not make me feel like a rock star is when I take my preggo belly somewhere where its not really appropriate for preggo bellies to be.
Now, even when I was un-pregnant I was not a big bar girl. I can hang in there for a drink or two, but I would always, always choose to be home in my pajamas over at a bar any day. Lately though, there have been several occasions where bar-attendance was mandatory and so I schlepped my pregnant booty out of the house. The first time this happened was over Christmas break. When you go home for Christmas and you are in your 20s, the only place you can usually run into old friends is at the bars. And I love old friends. So, I polled my family and we decided that it was not completely trashy for me to be pregnant in a bar as long as a few ground rules were laid:
1. I couldn’t actually stand AT the bar. Someone would need to fetch my drinks for me.
2. My drink had to be water. With lemon. In a big glass. So there was no mistaking that I was drinking a non-alcoholic beverage.
3. I had to leave the bar by 11:00 PM. I don’t know why we said 11:00, but that was the witching hour for me. Anything later seemed even more inappropriate than being there to begin with.
4. Absolutely no dancing on bars, tables, chairs, or fire trucks. (The fire truck thing only happened once. And I was definitely not pregnant. Or sober.)
So, those were my rules and while there were times when I was out that I felt a little uncomfortable (i.e. when I ran into a high school friend who drunkenly exclaimed, “You brought your baby to a bar!” Awkward…), for the most part it wasn’t so bad. Turns out everyone loves a pregnant lady. Even in bars.
But now I’m considerably bigger. And holiday season is no longer an excuse to be out in a bar seeing old friends and so the bar rules have become a bit fuzzy.
Last night we went out to a sports bar to watch the National Championship game (I’m a proud Gator-loving Seminole, thankyouverymuch), and we were seated in the more restaurant-y part of the sports bar so I felt more comfortable. We had a waitress and a table and a television and lots of friends to hide my belly. I felt good.
And then came half time.
At half time, the bar suddenly shut off the sound to the televisions and a DJ came over the intercom system. The lights went down and crazy dance music started played. And, as if on cue, a bouncer appeared at the front door and hundreds of tiny college girls in mini-skirts came flooding into the bar. The sports bar had morphed into an all-out dance club in about 2 minutes flat. I was mortified. I finished my dinner as fast as I could and then begged Chris to leave. Here I am, huge WITH CHILD and I’m literally bellying-up to the bar.
Sadly, I think I have reached the point in my pregnancy where bars have become off-limits… Time to start hanging out at The Golden Corral and The Happy Chinese Buffet where I can stuff my face more appropriately.