Dear Gretchen,
It’s not that I want it this way.
It’s not that I relish being ostentatious and so deliberate, if you know what I mean.
In the past couple of weeks, I have become increasingly unwieldy to the point no shirt, sweater, or waistband can withstand my strength. You try to hide me, but nothing can squelch a Gestational Salute.
Yesterday was particularly bad. You inventoried baby clothes, which are stored in the basement in tubs and plastic bags. Unfortunately and mysteriously, some of those bags had become wet and the clothes were ruined. This put a huge damper on baby preparations, so you decided to remedy the disappointment with a dose of Target and thoughts of baby clothes on clearance.
You and your eldest daughter thought you were alone as you shopped, but you weren’t.
I was there.
You forgot about me until you noticed the bemused and sometimes alarmed eyes of strangers becoming entangled in my wide net. The lilac long-sleeved tee you wore did absolutely nothing to deny my existence. In fact, it only enhanced my attributes to their full effect.
You called me unkind names, in your head: The Knob. The Dial. Third-Eye, Second-Nose, Nozzle, Toggle, Ornamental Drawer Pull, Umbilicus Horriblus, The Groundhog Sees His Shadow, Corky, and The Watchtower.
I had the last word as you foolishly tried to pull your coat closed around me.
But don’t worry. Soon enough I’ll melt inward when your little passenger no longer forces me to say Howdy-Do to the world. I’ve never really been the same, anyway, since your first time around almost twelve years ago.
At least we have that understanding between us.
So, let’s stay friends.
Shake on it?
~Your Belly Button
