10 weeks to go (maybe)

30 weeks pregnant. My uterus now pushes up hard on my rib cage. In response to recent belly photos, my mother and mother-in-law each promptly sent me a poncho to cover my girth. I am a menace in the tiny aisles of our town's co-op grocery store.

A colleague lent me her enormous, horseshoe-shaped "body pillow." Which should be called a "half body" pillow for its resemblance to a pair of giant, white-clad smurf legs. The strategically pooled stuffing forms knee-knobs and a plush, smurf boots—the better to prop my mid-section and feet. In daylight hours, cats nestle contentedly in the smurf crotch.

I am very spoiled. Another friend brought me a cocoa butter stick to soothe the awful, "I-have-too-little-flesh!" feeling that signals another baby growth spurt. The stick smells like stale frosting, but I roll it on anyway, wondering if my "innie" bellybutton will ever return.

At 30 weeks, the baby's eyelids are no longer fused shut. I imagine him peering through my stretched navel, his peephole. "Grow, baby, grow." (That's what Adam used to whisper to my stomach.) And "Happy birthday, little boy." (Just a little while yet.) "A happy birthday to you."

He kicks so much and so vigorously lately. Already the biased parent, I read into these movements his exceptional intelligence, bravery, and joy.