Nghh~ 🦋

She's adjusting, give her time

“A-Are you sure I’m suppose to be this… ughh… Big?”

I whimper as my belly shifts in shape with the impatient life inside me. A wet slosh accompanies every step I take as I trace my finger around my now exposed belly button. My hands run underneath my belly to feel its weight… so full, so heavy. My tits have grown so much in preparation for my baby and with how big they are I hope I have enough milk.

No matter what position you try to sleep in, the baby gets in the way. Laying on your back seems like the natural option, but it weighs so heavy on you that you’re worried you might be trapped underneath it. It’s already so heavy that the walk to your bed was full of panting and grunting, holding your belly for support as you slowly waddled to your room. It may be a better option to just sleep while laying back.

And even if you are tired enough to sleep, the baby won’t let you. It’s far too active. Your belly bulges and stretches dramatically as the baby wriggles inside. You can hear the squelching and squishing even from outside, and what you think are growls. Maybe its movements would have been barely noticeable in something that was big enough to carry it, but your human body is way too small. You know better than to try to force it to stay still, or you’ll only make it thrash against you. All you can do is helplessly watch your painfully roiling belly, and maybe plead in vain for the baby to settle down. You squirm in place, desperately wanting to crawl away from the intense sensation, as if it’s hard to believe that this thing is inside you somehow

“I feel like I’m gonna explode.”

“I’m about to pop.”

The other thing that gets me every time is when someone else talks about bursting.

“Your belly looks like it’s going to pop.”

Aw, sweetheart. Are my twins already too much for you to carry? You poor, tired thing—your waddle is adorable, you know. I love how you clutch your lower back with both hands and shoot me a death glare every time you struggle off the couch. You can’t fool me: you like it almost as much as I do.

Especially how you let out that little moan, thinking I can’t hear you over my laptop speakers. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how often you “accidentally” knock something off with your belly just so you can grunt and display your massive bump while you try to reach for it.

And that bump. I can’t believe how fast you’re growing. At twenty-four weeks, you’re measuring bigger than most women at full term. The way your skin shines, so tight and transparent I can almost make out the veins beneath—it’s mesmerizing. It’s obscene how much you’re showing. I can’t help but run my hands over the belly every time you sidle up next to me, like it’s a magic lamp, and I’m trying to summon my favorite wish.

Today your belly button is really trying to escape. Last night it was a little swollen nubbin, but now it’s a proud, pink, perfect circle jutting through your shirt. I can’t stop flicking it. You try to squirm away, but I grip you by the hips and recapture you, greedy for more. My thumb presses into the tight, overstretched skin and you gasp, hips arching into my lap. 

I like to tease you that it’s my fault you’re so big, that I must be exceptionally potent, a world-class breeder. You always tell me to shut up, but you’re secretly proud. I can see it in your eyes when I rub your belly and talk to my “brats.” You want this; you need it.