Even despite the stretch marks

As I near the conclusion of my membership in the club of pregnant women, I am reflecting on what a privileged club it is. I mean, who doesn't love a pregnant woman? Strangers tell you how good you look. People actually do get up to give you a seat on the bus (at least, when you're as huge as I am at this point). Tough guys in gangsta cars give you the thumbs up when they see you wadling along the street. Everyone smiles at you.

I know there's another club waiting for me on the other side of this one - although I suspect the price of membership is a little messier (projectile vomiting and colic come to mind) - so I'm not complaining. It's just that I think I will miss the lovely percolation of these last nine months, as I wait for my life to change.

I am now almost unable to put my own shoes on (I can't even remember the last time I tied them), I can't sleep at night for more than a couple of hours without having to get up to pee or eat, and I need to sit down every half hour or so during the day, but, let's face it, I also have the best excuse in the world.... the excuse to make someone else clean the bathtub, the excuse to nap, the excuse to fart at will.

In a few days or weeks, I will be back to myself. A different self, I suspect, but still, an adult with responsibilities and expectations to fulfill. My full belly will no longer be a public beauty. I will, I am fairly certain and despite my best intentions, measure my body in inches instead of how good I feel today. When strangers come towards me with smiles on their faces, it will be for my baby, and not so much for me. This is how it should be. But still, I will miss the secret handshake of the pregnant belly club and the rare invitation to celebrate the skin I'm in.