Remember year twenty-one? I am going to assume here, that most of my readers are passed dear ol’ twenty-one and can freely reminisce with me, now if you are twenty-one or even god forbid, younger … frankly, I say to you sod-off sweethearts.

Twenty-one was dead set in the middle of my three years of glory. Sure I was sick for most of it with a nagging case of mono that wouldn’t release its grip, but because of that I was svelte and men were finally sweet on me. Bestie had to share the stage for once, and I revelled in it. Sadly, I wasn’t ride-around-sally like I should have been. Why? Well, because I was only sweet on one man. JPH. My future prisoner, my future punching bag, my future. Period. Growing up watching my parent’s indestructible marriage, practically since birth I was on the hunt for ‘the one’. When I met my hubby I knew. I just knew. His eyes were the Pacific Ocean and I was selling up all my possessions in order to acquire a boat to sail them. To make this less painful for those of you who don’t enjoy the sentimental, put it this way, his ass was incredible and would not quit. So I didn’t quit. Until he was mine. Score.

Let me tell you a little about the road to baby. In our case, I hate to say this, love made baby. JP and I from early on, put on our hardhats and together built the foundation of our relationship. From the moment he told me he was an outsider in his own family my mind was made up. He would never again feel like that. No matter where we ended up, together or apart. He would always know that within me was his true family. JP unconsciously repaid me by giving me years of unwavering understanding and kindness. I was by no means an easy girl to navigate. Even now, when I am acutely aware of how unreasonable or mean-spirited I am being in a particular situation with him, JP calmly waits me out, kisses my forehead and tells me he loves me the way I am, regardless of my moments of pure unadulterated insanity. I can’t express this clearly enough, I have been a raging case of psycho on more than several occasions and he has never lost it on me. Come to think of it, he may wear a cape from time to time too, because he is a superhero. The power of utter calm. The power of not stabbing me forty-eight times while I sleep has to be his superpower. So maybe love made baby, but JP’s strength made love.

I like to believe that this pregnancy is making me a bit of a truth-sayer. I’m ready to blow the lid on this week’s secret. Week twenty-one is so not like year twenty-one people. Ok, here are the important points of differentiation. Where there was once well-utilized slenderness, now you have super ninja-like fat that maybe you don’t see but you definitely feel. Everyday I’m dragging three boulders around: my belly and both my ass cheeks. At twenty-one I had alabaster skin, today I’m plagued by the damn mysterious purple nipples. Once there was this thing called romance, now there are life-altering butt pimples that make your husband request a temporary leave of anything remotely intimate. Conversation with Bestie at twenty-one consisted of coy chatter about boys, love and sex for the first time. Conversation with Bestie during week twenty-one is not coy; it’s bloody disturbing. A talk culminating at the topic of how our vaginas become cavernous holes during labour. (I likened it to the open jaws of a triceratops, and Bestie shuddered.) Moving on, now flirting at twenty-one involved pool halls, thirty year old men wearing alluring cologne, pitchers of beer and sideways glances. Flirting now, happens as an accident when you’re on your break at work and some forty-something guy sidles up to you, starts a conversation and when you blurt out that you are in fact five months pregnant ends the conversation with bone-chilling silence. Oh, and it is awkward as hell. Yes, my dear readers, at twenty-one you’re free, you have disposable income, you have youth and the world at your feet. At twenty-one weeks, you’ve got nothing more than sneak-up-on-you-flatulence, doctors telling you you’ve gained six pounds and probably something at your feet that you should really pick up if only you could find the energy it took to bend over. I’ll repeat for emphasis, no, week twenty one isn’t going to be like the year you turned twenty-one. But, here is the upside. Suddenly you find yourself with a little extra time to write things that will inevitably scar your father for the rest of his life, and yes, even though you haven’t said anything yet Dad, I know you’re reading this and yeah, I am the girl you raised.

To all my non-pregnant friends, this week I say to you enjoy your flows! Because by week twenty-one sans flow, you definitely start to lose your mind.