Score!

I survived bathing suit shopping and I didn't kill Only Child even once in the dressing room when no one else was looking.

I think first pregnancies are for going all out and spending lots of money to show off the blossoming tummy. Been there, done that. I am content to buy as little as possible and squeeze into my regular tee's until they're just too short. (My son calls them Winnie the Pooh shirts.)

So spending big bucks on a bathing suit was never a consideration. In fact, my only qualifications are (1) to not look vulgar and (2) to draw as little attention as possible. Looking cute at the pool's got nothin' to do with it...I'm just trying to hang in there for Only Child's sake.

And can I butt in for a second and ask, who are these freaks of nature that walk around in bikinis with their porno-bellies hanging out, no fat thighs, no stretch marks, and crazy enough in the head to think they look good? Some of them actually do look just fine. For pregnant women.

And on to Target, the first and last stop in our bathing suit hunt. Our search begins there when I remember Motherhood's strict "no refunds for any reason whatsoever" policy. (I mean, if a pregnant woman is not allowed to change her mind...then screw you! -- hypothetically speaking.) And I'd like the record to show that Target and Old Navy have as good or better to pick from and they don't sell your personal information out to a dozen junk mail distributors.

Everything out now (and for the last few years) seems to be a halter. So that means the bathing suit tie that rests on my neck has support countless pounds of big-girl-bounce. Which is borderline too heavy when I'm NOT pregnant. Style who? Just too impractical.

After nine different halter tops, my [insert body part]s were chaffing from all the putting on, taking off. I even considered a plus size top, but they were too short and provided extra room for 360 degrees of roundness. We were getting hungry and tired. Only Child was laying on the floor of the dressing room begging me to shoot him. I was about to give up when I saw it.

There, on the clearance rack was the only top in the store that could support my rack. A pink and black flowery thing hanging there with regular over-the-shoulder straps. It could have been velvet with a picture of Jimmy Hendrix's a$$ on it. If was my size, (and it was) I would have taken it.

I didn't even try it on. I just bought it, because it had sufficient fabric to cover us up and it saved me a trip to another store. Amen. The fact that it was on clearance just cemented for me that it was meant to be.

And if that wasn't score enough, the Rockets just beat the Lakers and we've been hatin' on Kobe Bryant this whole series.

It was a good day!

The truth about the Back Nine

How quickly time flies. I'm officially in the back nine.

Not feeling so dead sexy anymore, either. Everything (and I mean everything) is enormous and out of proportion. I'm feigning shock (if only to myself) when I, daily, pass a mirror and see that another part, seemingly unrelated to pregnancy, is blooming. Isn't that a delightful way to say it?

A huge compliment right now sounds something like,

"Wow, you're all baby!" or,

"I can't believe your 5 months pregnant already, you're so small." (Followed by an anecdote about you or someone you know to make me believe it.) ...Shameless prompting, huh?

I was at my aunt's nursing home the other day and a precious old lady asked me if I have any babies. I pointed, "that one over there is mine and I have another one on the way."

"I had a feeling," she said with a smile. It was very sweet and good lesson in how to gently approach the subject when you're not sure. And, considering I'm so clearly out of the closet, it was the cutest thing I'd heard all week!

I had to go to the store and buy some old lady sandals. Two weeks ago I dusted off some old kitten heels that I had not worn in four years just for a change. But I kept thinking of that kids' show Olivia, where the pigs are walking around on tip toes. I was afraid that I looked as absurd as I felt, and decided it wasn't worth the tripping hazard. My flip flops will do if there's not much walking, but I now need something more supportive for my rising dough feet. So when you see me strutting in my I heart Comfort sandals, just know that I'm under no illusions of dazzling anyone with my style. It's all much more primal right now.

And I've got to get some decent sleep. If I'm not up peeing, I'm flopping around trying to get comfortable. I disregarded the advice not to sleep on my back because it cuts off my blood flow, blah blah blah. (I can deal with a little light-headedness) until I read of my own accord that back sleeping also slows down digestion and can bring on hemorrhoids. OK, so now I'm scared straight, (that subject being a fate so disastrous that even doctors and BFFs don't like to talk about it.)

To aid me in sleeping on my side I was lodging three different pillows in strategic places that had to be constantly rearranged. Finally I gave up and bought a body pillow. But its going to take some getting used to because we're up half the night, me and "Stan," wrestling around like a couple of newlyweds trying out awkward positions while my poor husband gets edged closer and closer to insanity. And the couch. I give him another month.

I'm not hinting that I want the bed all to myself. I'm publicly announcing that I wouldn't blame him if he found a more restful spot to hunker down for the next few months.

And that ladies, is my truth about the back nine, minus a few details and specifics that could be deemed TMI for the gentler sex to read about.

Come back next week, same time same place, to read about my next adventure: shopping for a maternity bathing suit with a three year old in tow...