I’ve reached the ‘end’ stage. Strangers are openly commenting on my physical state (which is so, so weird). A random adolescent girl watches me tussle with a cart at Safeway; I’m sweating with effort and she inquires, “Are you pregnant?” I’m not very nice to her. I don’t smile, I just say, “Yes.” And she says, “Well, congratulations…” I say, “Thanks.” Before her abusive mother hollers at her to ‘get over here now.’ I was such a jerk to this girl but I think I was just surprised. At the time, it felt almost as invasive as if a stranger asked, “Are you fat?” or “Is your nose a little hooked at the end?” Now, I know that people just feel excited being around an extremely pregnant woman. A gigantic man at Petco turned to Josh and I while we waited in line and said, “Congratulations.” Simple…before turning around and lumbering off to the parking lot. Today two black guys with umbrellas walked by me in Columbia City and one of them shouted, “You’re about to drop!”

It’s no wonder: I’ve reached the waddling part of pregnancy where the hips feel like their going to crack open if not careful. All ligaments are like loose rubber bands and the groin hums and sings with each step. I struggle up even the smallest of hills but continue my almost religious attention to prenatal yoga twice a week. After class a group of us huddle together and compare stats: Who is dilated, who has recently birthed, which doula someone recommends, and how impatient some of us are to get this birth over with. One by one my comrades lift off and leave Pregnancy Land to the new world, to Baby Planet. My dear friend, who had been pregnant with me since the beginning, since we were both 5 weeks along, left Pregnancy Land a whole 3 weeks early. I feel strangely betrayed…