Friday, July 30, 2010
Towards the end of your pregnancy you start to notice that things don't fit like they used to. Shirts cannot accommodate your gigantic belly anymore. You notice the steering wheel of your car is somehow too close to you for comfort. You cannot get in and out of booths at restaurants anymore. Ah, on that let me elaborate a bit.
Jim and I do a weekly date night where we drop Libby off at his parent's house and then go out for a few hours. This week it wasn't going to work out so we decided to take Libby out to dinner with us. She likes going to restaurants but we don't take her that often because the girl won't eat. Instead she likes to focus on the salt/pepper shakers or dumping sugar in our drinks and not allowing us to eat. On this occasion though, we wanted to take her with us and decided to go to a place she liked and we knew she would eat at. So off we went and were seated quickly in a table that was half a booth/half chairs...by the bar...with a man smoking a very heavy cigarette right behind us. While I was thrilled to have Libby trapped in a booth type environment but me having the flexibility of having a chair to scoot out as far as my belly needed me to be, I could not handle the smoke. I do not like to be one of those people that make a scene. In fact, I hate people noticing me at all. So here we are and I have to make a decision whether to handle the smoke or move. I chose moving because after less than 2 minutes my head was already throbbing.
Off we went with the poor guy that would have been our waiter to our new table...or should I say booth. Booths are tricky with me. I never know whether I am going to fit or not and I usually casually joke about it with the person seating us but he high tailed it out of there so fast I couldn't catch him. Libby and Jim got settled in and I attempted to sit. Got up and attempted again. And again. I couldn't fit. The table didn't move. I was in trouble. Then walks in our new waitress. She said she would see if they could figure something out for me and I am turning bright red at this point. I decided to just go for it and squeezed myself in. The baby was not happy and immediately let me know it by readjusting himself onto my bladder. So, yes, I had to go to the bathroom almost immediately after sitting down. The waitress came back and asked if I was ok because honestly, I should have taken a picture, but I was squeezed in there pretty tight. I had to slouch to even fit. I told her I didn't want to cause any more trouble and we would just stay there. Meanwhile my bouncing baby boy was bouncing on my bladder and I didn't even want to think about that until I looked over at my little girl across the table from me tearing up and turning red. I knew that face - dirty diaper time. Boy was I thrilled. For one thing, I knew for a fact that the restaurant did not have a changing table in the men's room so I would have to find a way to get out of the table. The other was I would have to lift my somewhat heavy (36+lb) girl onto a changing table by myself. So now came the challenge of getting *out* of the booth. Jim was very helpful by saying I need to think of it like a game of tetris. Meanwhile I look over and see the single guy sitting in the booth next to us watching me, laugh and smile. Yeah, that's what I want to see people watching me move my belly around so that I can physically get out of the booth. Well, I thankfully find a way so that Jim doesn't have to pull me out of there.
Libby gets changed. I make the baby happy (?) by reducing the size of my bladder. Then I return to the table to find my yummy salad at the table. I purposely ask for salad dressing on the side because it reduces the risk of me spilling it all over me. Unfortunately this didn't happen this time and within 5 seconds of me sitting in front of it I smear salad dressing all over my chest. Luckily this was the last thing that occurred in the restaurant and I was able to get out of the booth just fine when it was time to go. Sadly, I still had to get to my car and encounter the people around me. I had almost made it to my car when I saw that a giant white escalate was parked on my side. Very closely to my door. So I am thinking at this point I am doomed to never leave here and be squeezed in and out of everything only to hear a very loud whistle behind me. I jumped (because I am a scaredy cat) and then heard a man say, "WOW! Do you need me to follow you around with a catcher's mitt?" Honest to God. I turned bright red and said no but thanks knowing I had no where to run because I didn't even know if I could squeeze into my car thanks to the car parked poorly next to me blocking me in. Thankfully I did squeeze in and then once my family was in the car I told my hubby we are NOT eating out until after the baby is born.
So, if you ever see a very pregnant woman just politely ignore her size and do not stare. And do not whistle at her. And do not park crooked near a mini van that you suspect has small children. That's just mean.
Labels: pregnancy, Thomas James
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