I often see maternity pics in my facebook feed, and good on those people for dressing up, or whatever, and sometimes even getting their gear off, and having hands on belly or boobs and belly or siblings and belly or baby shoes, or whatever other combination of must-have maternity photographs they want, taken and framed or just sent to all and sundry over the interwebs. I didn’t do those, and very few people I know have done them. I didn’t want to spend the dosh on more professional photos, especially after Husband never spoke up about the way he really felt about the colour of our faux leather wedding album.  Also, I don’t have any besties who are awesome photographers whom I wouldn’t mind dressing down in front of, for belly photos in some form.
All that being said, I was rethinking everything as I massaged my food baby bellyin the shower today, while the water coursed over my perfectly coiffed hair and lightly sprayed my perfect make up in a softly glowing, naturally lit bathroom, which was flattering from all angles.
People might ask when I am due as I swan around town with trendy maternity clothes and lattes, and enviously glance at my All stars sans pregnacy-induced orthodic insoles. And what could I tell them?

Numero DEUCE!