.. only I guess it isn’t.
I just discovered my first four little stretchmarks.
My four little silvery-pink riders of the Apocalypse, staring up at me from low on the left side of my belly, were waiting for me to acknowledge them.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to whine and complain to Reverend Mommy, whose cell phone conveniently dropped my call at the exact moment I needed to start whining.
We talked again almost instantly. However, that first shock and horror was kind of gone.
They are here now. They’ve been duly pampered and begged not to spread their Revelation across my abdomen. They were massaged with obscene amounts of Mustela 9 months.
They are now covered, but I am not sure I buy their foxhole conversion. I shall keep an eye on them.
And oddly enough, I don’t feel nearly so awful anymore. Or really, much at all.
However, I will be whining to my husband the second he gets home. I need snuggles.
I went almost all the way through a twin pregnancy without a single stretch mark on my belly. Tons in other places, but my belly was beautiful.
Then, a week before they were born, my belly was an explosion of stretch marks.