Yesterday, like so many of my fellow Americans, we participated in the magical holiday known as Superbowl Sunday. We did so by attending a party at our neighbors house. The party, as promised, was filled with "cool people" and "rugrats." Most of the people in attendance were our age, admittedly very cool, and had one or more small children.
My now-completely-obvious baby belly drew much admiration and launched several pregnancy/baby-related conversations, which almost completely prevented me from seeing the football game (super secret confession: I didn't mind). Rather than wear one of my maternity tops, I chose to don one of my t-shirts - you know, one of the few that I can still pull over my extended abdomen. I have been wearing my 'normal' clothes as much as possible lately because I feel like I'll have plenty of time to sashay around in maternity clothes and because I kind of like the way I look in my normal clothes. Clothes that aren't designed to hide my growing belly. In other words, I like that I look pregnant. It's a look that was much admired at the party; one woman, baby in arms, repeatedly told me that I had "the cutest baby bump she's ever seen," and even went so far as to drag her husband over to look at it. "Look at how it's all out in front!" she exclaimed. "You can just tell that there's a baby right there." And she pointed right to where our little guy was laying.
See? How can I not like that?*
*Full disclosure: I still wrestle with some body image issues. When you go through life with a body you are familiar with, one that you have some modicum of control over, it's disconcerting to see it change so rapidly. That said, my baby belly is pretty adorable.
In addition to the bustling preschoolers and active toddlers (including the most darling 2 year old fraternal twin boys, each heartbreakingly shy and sporting a mow-hawk), there was an 8 month old boy. Mid-way through the game, R sidled over, pointed to this little guy, and told me that next year our baby boy would be the same age. At first I objected - there was no way our unborn child was going to be so big by next Superbowl. And then I counted it out. And I was stunned. Eight months. That's hold old the baby growing inside me is going to be this time next year. Unbelievable.
Throughout the majority of the night - which was extra long thanks to the 30+ minutes of the power outage at the Superbowl stadium - I stood and conversed. The main point being, I was standing. Even though my feet were getting tired and my back was starting to protest, I continued to stand because our precious baby was insistently wiggling as low as he could get and pounding away on my cervix. If I sat, he pounded harder. Sharp pains shot out from my most tender of spots while I grinned and talked about being pregnant, and "Yes! We are so excited!" and "we have been looking into (insert whatever baby advice you've ever gotten/given/overheard)." And the whole time I wanted to thump my belly and say, "Damn it, baby, get off mommy's cervix! That's not for playing with!"
Overall, we had a great time. It was fun to watch the various daddies playing with and taking care of their little ones. Of course, it's great seeing mommies do that too, but it's less of a novelty. I repeatedly saw fully shared tag-team parenting going on throughout this party and it was awesome to behold. I know that R will be like that. Every part of him wants to dive into parenting. It's just great to see how much our society has changed and how involved fathers are these days.
It's also great to see little kids, in an overall well-behaved manner, having fun. We're not around that many kids and I appreciated the reminder that they grow, are generally happy and healthy, and that we are far from the first people to embark on this crazy journey.