Man, I love being pregnant. It’s the first time in my womanhood during which I’ve been so proud of my body I can’t help but boast about it. I mean, guys, it’s growing a human.
Inside me right now is a perfectly formed little person with eyebrows and fingernails. Can you believe it? I often can’t, but then there’s that little nudge in the internal organs or the somersaults in the ultrasound to remind me.
This is miraculous. Why didn’t anybody tell me how miraculous it is? To be fair, Mum did, but she should have shaken me and yelled ‘THIS IS BLOODY MIRACULOUS!’
What’s more amazing? My body just knew how to do it. It didn’t bitch and moan about it. It didn’t call Roadside Assist. It didn’t swear at the instruction manual and snap an Allen key. No. My body, this body, the one my Mum grew for me twenty-eight years ago, just knew what to do. It is a certifiable genius.
Gosh I’ve been cruel to it. I’ve stood in front of the mirror grumbling at it for refusing to tone after twenty squats.
I’ve poked and stuffed my belly into too skinny jeans.
I’ve cursed tight hamstrings for preventing my fingers from touching my toes in yoga. Blasted hamstrings.
I’ve been short with it when it wobbles and shakes after a big night out.
Foot cramps. Hairy legs. Cellulite. My period. Crooked teeth. Even a stubbed toe—it’s all my body’s fault.
Then, with the help of my wonderful husband, it up and forms life. Brilliant.