At five months plus pregnant, I officially deem myself in the baby-squishing stage. While there are some benefits to being a short mom—especially of young children—the jury’s out on how desirable short stature is when it comes to pregnancy.
I am usually content to be petite. It’s not like I have a choice, of course. As my mom says, I descend from hobbits: short English people with wide feet who like to eat. I mean, they’re making yet another movie about us, for crying out loud. We’re kind of a big deal.
Still, I’m not sure my shortness adds much to our little ones’ prenatal experiences. I’ve just reached the point where I’m having trouble comfortably getting close enough to the sink to wash the dishes. (Possible solution: John does the dishes. I’m kidding, John! I know you do them all the time!) My belly—which I’m told is not that big yet—is already proving a hindrance. I’m sure I’m squishing our littlest man. I try to apologize, but I can’t be sure that really helps.
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The same is true of my holding sleepy Jacob too long before he goes to bed. When he’s tired, our little boy likes to drape himself over me, rather than sit on my hip like he does at other hours of the day. And so I am squished. My lungs are squished. And again, Henry is squished. Bedtime songs are getting shorter and fewer these days.
As uncomfortable as these moments can be for me, Henry doesn’t seem to mind. Once Jacob’s put to bed and the dishes are done, he still wakes up to play.
Maybe he thinks it’s a game. That’s all right, as long as Jacob realizes it ends once his little brother is born.
