Let me just get this out of the way: at 32 weeks pregnant, I’m currently huge. Huge as in ginormous (is that even a word?). It’s funny, because I always wanted to be one of those cute little pregnant ladies that you see on TV or in the magazines. The cute little ladies who gain just a little weight right in their stomach and nowhere else. (This is me at 30 weeks.)

But I think I realized pretty early on that that wasn’t going to happen. Still, knowing what was going to happen and seeing it unfold before my very eyes is a very different matter.

The worst part is not the lumbering around and feeling like a foreigner in my own body, it’s not even how I hardly recognize myself when I look in the mirror. (These were taken this weekend at 32 weeks)

No, the worst part is when people say, “When are you due? In eight weeks, really? I thought you were farther along than that.”

I know they mean well and I try not to let what they say hurt my feelings. Instead I make a joke about how I’ve just got a big guy in here and that it’s my husband’s fault , what with his size 15 feet and all.

And in all fairness, at my ultrasounds we were told that our son is measuring big for our due date and to expect him at least a week early, if not more.

All that said, it’s still hard to see myself in my new body. Well, it’s me carrying another body really.

Hmmm… when I look at it like that, maybe it’s not so bad after all.

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