He is Borat. He sinks into a warm bubble bath: is niiice. Takes a bite of crispy pear: is niiice. Snuggles into bed with mama and dada in the morning: Jammies: off. Diaper: off. <stretches> Ahhh, is niiice.
He takes my hand, leads me to the couch, positions me like a raggedy Jabba the Hutt doll and curls up, doggedly perching on the last remaining ¾ inch of lap. Cuddle, ahhh. Is niiice.
Everything ends with ‘okay’. Okay means Yes, please. But it also means OBEY ME NOW. Mama, cuddle — OKAY. As if to say “This is settled. It has been discussed and decided upon. I now give you permission to pass me that cookie.”
He is Obi Wan Kenobi: These are not the droids you’re looking for. You may go about your business — OKAY.
Meanwhile, I am a giant banana slug. It is the first trimester, the sequel. The movie trailer booms: "Like before, ONLY BIGGER! In a time when time stood still…" I am plastered to the couch, constantly winded. I can’t stand or walk for long without bending over, bracing hands to knees. I lay prostrate with my feet up, one pillow between my legs and another tucked underneath The Great Heaving Mass. Some wretched jerk asked me tonight, “Aren’t you doing yoga, like last time?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “It’s very deep. Only the most elevated of yogis can appreciate the intensity of such devotion to my practice. Twelve hours every day, sideways-sprawl corpse pose.”
To the perspective of all except my fetuses, I am completely useless. They thrive despite me, a nutritional black hole. I crave fluffy white carbs, nestle quik, salty eggs and spoonfuls of butter. I inhale fresh broccoli and omega-threes as I waddle past at the grocery store, banking on osmosis.
Evan and I share cans of alpha-getti. There. I said it. It’s true. On getting up from the la-z-boy, I moan while bracing my lower back with the heels of my hands. I am, finally, sitcom-pregnant.