21 Days

I am going to tell it to you just like I told my nonna. Sit down. Hang on to your key board. The Professor and I eloped, after jumping through the rings of Italian bureaucracy. And we’re going to have a baby in approximately 21 days. Oh yeah, Nonna, by the way, you can call me Stepmom.

Yep—I went from zero to pregnant stepmom in less than 7 months. I was sperminated at the same time as most of Perez Hilton’s hit list and since then, every page I click, I have been inundated with baby talk.

Shouldn’t I have been baby blogging since the pink line appeared? I decided to wait until after the first trimester to even contemplate telling people I was pregnant. While I tried to look as unpregnant as possible, fashion seemed to mock me with empire waist shirts and baby doll dresses that beg the question “are you pregnant?” to be asked even if the wearer is 16 years old and on a hit TV show. (She was—and had a baby girl in June.) My boobs also tried to betray me as they hit Video Chick proportions, coining the now famous week 12 observation by my cousin: “Ma che cosa e’ sucesso? Le tette sono fantastiche! Giulia, tu devi trovare questo regiseno!”

What happened? Your tits are fantastic! Giulia, you have to get this bra. A snidem jab between sisters.

By week 18, I realized that I preferred the 5th amendment to protect the few important people who needed only to hear the good news from me and The Professor, so that outside influences wouldn’t sway them. Only after their proverbial “thumbs up”, plus medical green light, and visible distinction between pasta belly and baby bump, did I opt for a Tell All. But by this time, I had gotten into the habit of not saying any thing to anyone, so writing about
Pregnancy, Italian Style, and even writing in general, was passé. I don't know if it was the ridiculous doctor visits, the heat or simply ennui, but I lost all desire to pick up my fingers.

At Week 24, it was obvious I was knocked up and we began fielding attempts by doctors, cashiers and cab drivers to tell us what the sex of the baby would be. I’ve had crosses dangled over my hands, my belly “read” and ultrasounds—and we still don’t want to know. The bump eventually became the traditional bowling ball shape and my cravings targeted on the quintessential cherry popsicle. I was enjoying a pregancy a la Angelina, with clingy dresses, plunging necklines and a guaranteed seat on the bus, tram or any public space. But at end of week 33, I lost my cool, my mind and my self-confidence.

It's now week 37, and yes, ci siamo quasi, as my local butcher commented before he invited me to lunch. We're in the homestretch and the cat is almost out of the bag. Am I about to be catapulted into a world of mombloggers aka housefrau hobbyists who blog in the beatified pose of baby on breast while fervently typing about eco-diapers and baby signing? (Between naps and feeding, of course.)