Body Issues

So, I'm pregnant. Wahoo! Also, I'm pregnant. Aaaahhhhh!!! That's my body screaming in terror. Poor thing. I don't blame it. Pregnancy does a number on this bag of skin and bones our rapidly deteriorating brains call a home and mine has been through a lot lately.
I was dancing with my kids last week. Dancing quite vigorously to a rousing rendition of Eye of the Tiger. The children were not having good success in finishing their dinner so we decided some peppy music would be in order. The good news is that it totally worked. We did some shuffling and some rings-around-the-rosie and some air guitaring and before we knew it the dinner was consumed and everyone was full and happy. The bad news is that when we put the kids to bed shortly after that, I could no longer walk. The old gray mare sure ain't what she used to be and every muscle in my critchety, expanding body seized up, sending sciatic pain ripping through me like a tornado, and condemning me to an evening on the couch cuddling frantically with a hot pack. I guess Baby was mad that we were dancing happily without him and he was forced to be sloshed around inside against his will. (The disclaimer here is that we don't actually know if it's a "him" yet, but I hate referring to my baby as "It".)
A couple days later, we continued to learn about the joys of a pregnant body while getting ready with my daughters to take them to school. I tell Number 2 that I just need to use the bathroom and then we can go. She gets super annoyed, throws her hands on her hips, and points out, "Mom. You went potty already." "Well, yes, honey, but when you have a baby in your tummy you have to go potty a lot," and then we're launched in to a full-scale explanation of how the baby presses on your bladder and what's a bladder and oh it's a big sack that lives in your body and collects your pee like you collect lid-less markers and rocks and junk mail and other unidentifiable items and now you're looking at me with a bewildered expression so we'll just say that the baby squeezes the pee out of you when you're a mommy and I don't know if this is better but it certainly is an idea that delights you and seems to satisfy your curiosity even if you are permanently scarred from wanting to become a mother so we can finally get out the door to school where I will once again have to use the bathroom so that I can go work out without wetting myself or at least not very much.
A couple more days later and I need to run into the other child's school - Number 1's elementary. I am feeling good about myself, fully dressed at 7:45 am, carrying in 40 water bottles to donate to the school's jog-a-thon, doing my civic duty and being clothed like a decent person while I do it. Heck to the yeah. I drop the water bottles off and wonder why the office staff still stands there staring at me expectantly, but like all good stories I don't find out the reason why until I get home and look in the mirror to admire my admirable reflection. It is at this point that I discover the giant streak of chocolate (where did it even come from at this hour??) that is clearly and unabashedly highlighting my only-this-large-during-pregnancy-much-to-Josh's-dismay cleavage from top to bottom. Classy. No wonder they were all staring at me, not expectantly like I'd thought, but like I was a chocolate buffoon and with sympathy and horror for the poor children being raised by me.
The fun is still not over. Fast forward to today and we are getting ready for church. I don't "get ready" all that often, so this is sort of a big deal. To celebrate the occasion, I decide to wear fun hot pink tights that will look really cute with my dress when I'm done, but take a fair amount of effort to put on. Poor Josh walks in during this process and gawks at me stuffing myself into these tights like a sausage trying to shimmy into its own casing, with an understandable amount of horror, but he knows enough by now not to say anything. Number 3, on the other hand, has no such hangups. She just waltzes in, takes a look, and says, "Ew." Glanching at myself in this ridiculous get up, I sort of have to agree with her, but we'll just slip a dress on over top of it, pretend we don't own a mirror at home and hope for the best. At this point, halfway through growing Kid Number 4, I'm pretty sure that's as good as it's going to get.