Lump

We think the lump on the upper part of Julie's stomach is a butt. More toward the side is a foot or two. And on her bladder are the hands, with fingers playing Chopsticks. She used to be round, but now she's getting lumpier by the day.

And the stomach moves. You can be sitting across the room for her, and if you gaze at her stomach (as I often do, in affection or horror depending on the second) you will see all kinds of flutters. Picture a calm lake at night, water like glass, and suddenly a giant aquatic snake-monster slithers above the surface. Well, it's sort of like that. I remember a movie where these alien bugs would get into your skin and crawl around. You'd see them below the surface. I now believe that movie is a metaphor for pregnancy.

As for the rest of her, she's survived pregnancy quite well, though you'd never know it by talking to her. She refers to the physical changes as the preggy squish. Where muscle previously resided, preggy squish has infiltrated. It's not true, exactly, but she feels like it is. I've definitely lucked out in the sense that I think some women really do become giant sea monsters when they get pregnant. Their entire beings mutate, and so then do their personalities. Pregnant Julie is all lumpy belly. The rest of her is still relatively unscathed.

I took her to the ballet tonight (67 husband points that I'll spend tomorrow by not mowing the lawn). You can tell that a lot of the women in the audience are ballet dancers themselves because they're nearly six feet tall and look like they could use a sandwich or two. There Julie sat among them with her lumpy belly, weeks (possibly days) away from childbirth. She was oblivious to it, but I noticed some of them notice her, and clearly they were jealous.