At some point you start thinking maybe you are pregnant and don’t know it like one of those tv shows


What’s that expression? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Think I’m pregnant three times I might as well jump off something very very high.

Is that right?

If you’re not following me on twitter (which, why not?*) you may have missed the part where my daughter’s teacher congratulated me on being pregnant yesterday. I replied, as I have before, “Oh, no, not pregnant” and she stumbled and said, “Oh, I probably look pregnant, too, uh…” and it was awkward, as it always is, and then I went home and cried, like I always do.

Because she’s not in the wrong to think it simply based on appearance.

Here’s the thing: I recently described my body to the doctor as one of those puzzles where you match the head, torso and legs only my torso completely doesn’t match. It’s all round and flabby while the arms are strong and my legs are lean.


I’m a broken puzzle, y’all.

I work out. I cut back on sugar. I endulge sometimes because I believe in having a life-style, not a diet, but I try to drink lots of water, eat lots of veggies and pick the right thing more times than not.

And yet, these abs, y’all. THESE ABS. They are stretched in ways they hang like last year’s coat in my childrens’ closet.


I see it at Yoga. I am strong and powerful. I’ve been told I have a “beautiful practice” and yet I look like no yogi in the room. Instead, I lay over my flabby abs in Pigon and stare at disdain for the stomach that used to hold a shape. I tell myself not to hate it because it grew the children I adore and love and who love me regardless of how I feel about my abs.

32.2 weeks

My abs stretched and created life and why I hate them for it is simply because of this one fact:


Now it is painful ovulation and one big hazard to anyone wanting to wish me well.

Like my friend’s Mother in Law.

Like the Pioneer Woman, Ree.

Like my daughter’s teacher.

I took a picture of my shirt realizing it’ll be the last time I wear it. I can understand why she thought I was pregnant. I don’t hate her for it. I don’t think she was rude. I think she made a mistake, one I’d probably make myself if I wasn’t all too aware of the hurt it caused.


It’s not her fault I look pregnant. It’s mine.

There is an amazingly powerful denial that happens each morning in the mirror. A denial not strong enough to ignore three separate instances (actually, four, but that’s another story) of false congratulations. Denial I can’t allow to shield me from this one fact: My belly, it is soft. It is soft and round and nothing like the rest of my body.

Now, the choice is mine to decide: What am I going to do about it?**

What would you?

*If you are following me on twitter and I’m not following you back, it’s because SPAM bots have forced me to ignore most everything and all you gotta do is send a lovely “@mrsflinger I AM FOLLOWING YOU AND I AM REAL” and I’ll be sure to follow back.

** Yes yes, not wearing empire waisted shirts/dresses/anything is my first place to start. :: facepalm ::

Posted: 3/3/2010