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So I have been blatantly operating on the assumption that this baby is going to be small because she is a girl. Girls are small. I'm a girl, and I'm small. This also means that I have been living in the peaceful ignorant bliss of assuming that she is going to just magically appear after a few unpleasant contractions and an epidural cocktail.

Considering my first run at childbirth, this is a FANTASTIC theory.

But over the past few days, I have had the sinking realization that perhaps I am wrong. Now that her movements are much more than mere flutters, it is apparent that she is already filling up my entire torso. When I feel her move right under my ribs, I also feel something kick me alllll the way down toward my pubic bone. At the same time. Great. Another long baby.

Right about now in the pregnancy, all that is left is the growing. As in, starting now is when the belly will begin to get larger and larger until I am that lady walking (barely) from the car to the front door of the grocery store who people get puppy dog eyes (if you have ever been pregnant before) and say to their friend or husband, "That poor poor girl. She looks like she could go any minute..."

Only, I am already sporting the Great Pumpkin belly. I wear loose clothes a lot, since I only go from home to the studio where I teach dance, and so I am in sweats and a sweatshirt most of the time. So people don't really pay attention and notice unless I point it out. But naked? Thar she blows, people!

And it's only going to get bigger and bigger and more ungainly. And I am fine with that. What is ungainly for me to carry around on my five-foot frame is entertaining for friends who think pregnancy is cute to look at. And it is. I totally get it. There's a baby in there and babies are cute.

However, mentally and emotionally, there is a wee feeling of dread. I know that if she is already filling up my torso now, and starting this week is when she is supposed to just grow and grow and grow until she's ready to come out, I am in for a big baby. And big babies don't seem to like coming out of me very easily. And that, folks, freaks me out. Fuh-reeks. Me out.

Is it too late to find a strapping young Nordic surrogate? I can pay her in homemade soup.