The answer is, “Your face doesn’t even look pregnant yet, but it’s going to get fat.”
What is “Things to say when you want your fiancé to stab you”, Alex?
That is correct.
So, Lisa really started showing this week which one of us is excited about and, spoiler alert, it’s not the one who’s showing. Don’t get me wrong, she’s excited to be 18 weeks pregnant. However, in a perfect world the baby would grow outside of her body, perhaps wrapped in a warm tortilla or on a low simmer in a Crock Pot. After years of working out, Spinning, running Spartan Races, and eating healthy, her stomach was flat as a board. A smooth, supple, 26 year old board that is way too young for me but I can so I do, don’t judge me.
When she noticed the first millimeter of baby fat a few weeks ago you’d have thought she woke up looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy. I, on the other hand, being someone who usually notices a change in her body composition at the molecular level, didn’t even flinch. Whereas she was concerned about starting to show and becoming less attractive, I couldn’t wait for her to look like she’d swallowed a Volkswagen whole. I’ve been encouraging her to eat which, for those who know me, goes against the core of my being. It’s no secret. Being in a relationship with me is an eating disorder. Yet these days I find myself asking her, “Do you want ice cream?” and not meaning it as a test to determine if I need a weight clause in our pre-nup.
Look, Lisa is beautiful.
Lisa fit is even more beautiful.
Lisa pregnant is easily the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The problem is that I’ve been so encouraging about her healthy eating and fitness, which she might describe as emotionally abusive fat shaming, that Lisa feels even the slightest weight gain on her part makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a kebab skewer. What she doesn’t realize is that, much to my own shock and amazement, pregnancy is a game changer. This past week, as her belly expanded like a tin Jiffy Pop pan in fast forward, rather than forwarding her a Craigslist “Roommate Wanted” ad, I fell more deeply in love than I ever have been. Now I’m like a kid with a Chia pet, trying to grow her as quickly as possible. I’ve finally realized what they mean by “pregnancy brain” because I fucking have it. Rather than serving her half an ice cube for dinner I say things like, “You should be eating more,” or “That’s not enough food for you.”
Who am I?
There’s really no denying that an impending baby changes your perspective. It’s not that things that mattered before are less important, just that some other things are now more important. I’m a very particular person and I don’t apologize for liking what I like, or what I consider aesthetically pleasing. I have never been shy about expressing that I find a fit, firm body pleasing to the eye. Health, vitality, and athleticism are attractive to me. But nothing, and I mean nothing, is more attractive, more gorgeous, and more inconceivably stunning to me than the site of my fiancé and her rapidly expanding but-not-expanding-fast-enough-for-me pregnant belly. When we get married in two weeks, and she’s quietly lamenting the way her stomach is testing the structural integrity of her wedding dress, I’ll be grinning from ear to ear. Because she’ll be looking exactly the way I want her to look, like the mother of our child.