Well, that was a comical clothing store visit. Just for fun, I tried on some maternity stuff, and boy did I look and feel ridiculous! After getting lost in a sea of fabric that the label identified as a blouse, I finally managed to poke my head through the neck hole only to find I was wearing a deflated dinghy. I can’t believe I’m actually going to grow big enough to wear such a thing. I double-checked the tag before returning it to the rack just to make sure I had a medium.

Even worse, I think all the cute maternity pants were low-rise. Who thought that up? A man? A twenty-two-year-old female designer who hadn’t seen a pregnant belly up close before? Gross. I want my stomach completely covered, not playing peek-a-boo with strangers on the street (or people I actually know, for that matter).

I’m so glad the pants with the elastic waist fit. Before I tried them on, it was like I was in pregnancy limbo—not small enough to wear my regular clothes, but certainly not big enough to wear maternity couture.

Speaking of clothes, it looks like I’m not the only one who’s going to be needing some this pregnancy. We’re going to have to take out a loan to refurbish Chip’s wardrobe. In the past I’ve always thrown his golf shirts in the dryer for just ten minutes to get the wrinkles out before hanging up the shirts to air dry. If I leave them in the dryer any longer they’ll shrink. But now that I’m pregnant, I can’t remember to take the shirts out, and I certainly can’t remember to set the kitchen timer just ten yards away. No matter how much I stand there tossing clothes in the dryer while repeating the mantra “set the timer, set the timer, set the timer,” as soon as the laundry room door shuts, I’ve forgotten. I would just set the dryer for ten minutes if I could ever think of it.

Score so far: Preggy Brains 2, Golf shirts 0.

I had to retire some clothes today. Good-bye, size ten pants! See you in the spring (I hope). My husband offers me no empathy. He just grins as I wail about how nothing fits anymore. It’s not that I’ve gained any weight. It’s that all my poundage has migrated to my waistline.

Back during my sophomore year in college, I had to endure a daily visual assault of my English prof’s bulging stomach and ample hindquarters stretching her knit pants to capacity. By the time spring break rolled around, I’d sworn off any garments involving elastic waistbands and drawstrings. Ever. So it’s a bit embarrassing to confess clothes with these once-shunned characteristics are looking pretty good right about now. At Chip’s insistence, I plan to shop for some this evening. He’s been on me about smooshing his baby.

I knew the jig was up this afternoon when Penelope accosted me in the hall at the Herald.

“McAllister, a word,” she squawked, jerking her head toward the break room.

Never good at coming up with excuses to get me out of undesirable situations, I dutifully followed.

She closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it, crossing her arms. “I know what’s going on.”

I feigned nonchalance. “What are you talking about?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t play innocent with me.”

“Honestly, Penelope, I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.”

“The tiredness. The paleness. The increase in appetite. The shakes.” She nodded, her eyes slits. “I know.”

My cheeks grew hot. Was it that obvious? Could people tell I was pregnant before my waistline (noticeably) started expanding? Would I be forced to divulge my secret because of this wily, observant old bird? Penelope was certainly not at the top of the list of people I wanted to tell. I believe there’s a sacredness attached to announcing that I’m carrying a new life inside me, and to have to reveal it to her before anyone else bordered on the profane.

“Here.” She pressed a slip of paper in my hand. “Call them. They’ll help.” She turned with a flounce of her layered skirt and left the room.

Bewildered, I unfolded the piece of paper and stared at the chicken scratch before throwing my head back to laugh. Of course. She had just done a series on addiction.

Narc-Anon: 404-708-3219

As long as Penelope doesn’t do any stories on telepathy, my secret is safe.

Even though I’m so tired, I’m having difficulty sleeping. I only get six hours a night now instead of the usual eight. When I do sleep, it’s filled with strange dreams. I spent last night picking chocolate Easter eggs wrapped in pastel foils from our blueberry bushes.

So far I haven’t had any real food cravings, except an odd penchant for anything green. On the flip side, I’ve an aversion to the McAllister mainstays of tacos, fried chicken, and hamburgers. Yuck. Just the thought is unpleasant. And the smell, intolerable. Even so, still no morning sickness!

Why is it that pregnancy affects women so differently? I've been reading What to Expect When You're Expecting and it seems what is true for some women is the antithesis in others. Take, for example, skin. The book poses a question from a woman who complains that her face is breaking out just like she's a teenager again, yet in my case, my complexion has never looked better.

I've heard women swear that their hair looked like something straight out of a conditioner commercial when they were pregnant and others gripe that every day was a bad hair day. Some women exude that rosy glow and others look haggard. Their feet balloon or don't, bust increases or remains status quo, belly button pops or doesn't; whatever the case, pregnancy truly is a unique experience.

Once again, I did something uncharacteristically absentminded today (but of course, try as I might, I can’t remember what). However, I do remember what happened next.

Instead of calling me Preggy Girl, that endearing term of wonderment and goodness, Chip morphed it into the incarnation of memory lapses and foibles afflicting a once-sharp mind.

My nemesis.

The Hyde to my Jekyll.

“Preggy Brains.”

There’s been a moratorium placed on his calling me that again.

Little One, I think about you all the time and wonder what you’ll be like. Indigo eyes like your daddy's or green like mine? Dark brown hair like my relatives' or light brown like his? Will you inherit your grandfather’s crooked smile and dimples? And what about your personality? Will you laugh and find joy in life, or will you be all business?

You’ll be such a welcome part of the family celebrations that we hold each holiday at the home of your great-grandparents, like the cookout your father and I went to this afternoon. Even though no one on either side of the family has ever badgered us about having children, it was so hard not to say anything to them about you today. I can’t wait to see their faces when we tell them you’re on the way!

My child (I just love writing that!), if you and your spouse decide to keep your pregnancy to yourselves after finding out that you’re expecting someday, only then will you understand how difficult it is to keep such a wonderful thing secret. When Granny G. asked me and your Aunt Linda to insert the leaf in the oak dining room table, I confess I pretended to pull on my side. But in truth, I let your aunt do all the work. It was just too heavy to take any chances. I wonder if your aunt noticed. I also stopped myself from having a slice of the apple cake after Granny G. revealed she had made it with artificial sweetener on account of Granddad’s diabetes. You were foremost in my mind when I refused that piece of caffeine-laden fudge pie, too.

Could you feel the boom of the fireworks tonight as they exploded overhead? Did you wonder what they were?

There’s so much I look forward to sharing with you and experiencing through your eyes. Know that I pray for you often and ask the Lord to watch over you.

Month Two: July

I did something today that I haven’t done in nearly twelve years. I locked my keys in the car. I also locked my wallet and lunch in it too, meaning no food and no trip to the snack machine during the two hours I spent waiting for the auto club. (Yes, that’s right, I chose to do this on a day when Chip was out of town.) In ravenous pregnant-woman terms, two hours without food is the equivalent of two days for members of the non-pregnant population.

When the auto club rep finally arrived, I didn’t know whether to kiss him out of gratitude or harangue him for taking so long. I did try to ignore Penelope’s watchful eyes as I returned to my desk and, with trembling hands, drew slices of bell pepper from my recently recovered lunch bag.

Getting ready for work each morning is exhausting now. I can’t even stand up for the ten minutes it takes to put on my makeup. By the time I’ve eaten, showered, ironed, eaten, dressed, and eaten, I’m ready to go back to bed. How will I ever make it through the next eight or so months?

At night, I fall asleep on the couch between ten and ten-thirty despite my efforts to remain awake and keep Chip company. After all, these next few months will be our last opportunity to enjoy we-time for the next two decades.

Not that I’m complaining. I’m so glad this baby is on the way.