The Voyeur-ger

When I was pregnant with Lucas last year (Oh God, I was pregnant last year, too?), Ron and I got into a discussion about whether or not and when and if it is socially appropriate for a pregnant woman to bear her belly in public. I don't remember now exactly how the subject came up. Likely, while perusing a pregnancy magazine, I made the mistake of pointing out a midriff-baring shirt or dress that I thought looked cute on one of the models. Regardless, I do remember his reaction: a succinct, if melodramatic, "Ew!" accompanied by a face suggesting I had just shown him sheep entrails.

Now, contrary to what you may be thinking, I'm not going to turn all crunchy here and launch into a celebratory oration on the beauty of the engorged female form. I don't completely buy that crock o' schlock either. I understand that sometimes when we get pregnant, we just get fat. Still, Ron's reaction pissed me off because, in my hormonal state, I took it as a direct reflection of his attitude toward my own burgeoning belly. Of course he claimed over and over that this wasn't true (and I put down the meat cleaver). Still, I opted to keep my gut under wraps for the duration of the pregnancy.

All of this brings me to last Sunday, when Lucas and I were out for our morning walk. Since I finally bucked the bulk of my morning sickness, we've been pretty good about taking the stroller through its regular paces, even during this most recent heat wave. As soon as Lukey had finished breakfast, I filled a sippy cup with ice water, slathered the boy with SPF, and strapped him in. After turning right at the first corner, the sun was on our backs and there was a nice breeze coming down the hill, out of the West. I huffed and I puffed, pushing the 18 pound stroller plus the 25 pound kid (his collection of rocks, the sippy, the iPod, the garage door opener, the cell phone) up the hill and out of the subdivision. When I got to 156th St, I stopped to catch my breath and (after I downed nearly half of it myself) offered Lucas a pull from his sippy.

We ducked in and out of the flickering shade patches that dot the morning sidewalk between Oakbrook Meadows and the entrance to the Pappio Trail. Up on the ridge, there, the wind picked up and kept us cool. Lucas leaned his entire upper body over the left edge of the stroller to watch the ground roll past, his right fist simultaneously shoving a big piece of river rock into his mouth. This provided an extra upper body workout for me, as the giant leaning baby produced a significant amount of drag.

Anyway, by the time we'd progressed about 20 yards down the trail proper, I was sweating like a...well...like a pregnant lady pushing a giant stroller in 90-some degree heat, no shade in sight. Meanwhile, happy bicycling couples whizzed past on their way to Lake Zorinsky. I stopped to take a drink and realized something: most of those biking people weren't wearing shirts. The women wore sports bras, sure, but no shirts. Hmm. I walked another 10 yards or so. I stopped. I looked up the now empty trail behind me. I looked ahead. Empty that way, too, for the moment. Hmm. I handed the baby his sippy cup, and then I did it. In one quick move I pulled off my shirt and knotted it around the stroller handle. So much better! But as we resumed our walk, the internal dialogue began.

This isn't obscene or something, is it? It feels weird, vulnerable to be exposed this way. This from the girl who has never really worn anything on top but a sports bra for workouts, suddenly modest in my compromised body, like I'm showing something I shouldn't. I'm looking a little thick to be doing this. And my boobs look ridiculous. What if now I'm one of those people who runs around in things they shouldn't? Ron would later do his best to reassure me by saying, "I'm sure anyone who noticed just thought you had some baby gut left from the kid in the stroller." Oh, crap! What if people think I still have some baby gut left from the kid in the stroller? Not that there's anything wrong with that. And on it went for awhile. But by the time we got back home I was over my discomfort for the most part, for that day anyway.

Now, over a week later, I don't even bother with the shirt when Lucas and I go out in the mornings, even though my "problem area" grows thicker by the day. It's too hot to care, and I'm apparently too stupid not to walk in this weather. Should a woman my age and in my condition be running around in marathon shorts and a sports bra? Probably not, but who really sees me back there on the trail anyway? Oh well, yeah, him. Lucas the rock-eater will probably need years of counseling to get past it.