As It Turns Out--Post Edit
I don't know what I was thinking.
Yes, I do know what I was thinking.
I was thinking I didn't look pregnant enough for a headshot.
I was thinking I didn't have pregnant face just yet.
I was thinking I could fool the camera with an angle just above my chest.
(Because, as it turns out, one look at my chest and you know I must be pregnant.)
So I called up Justin Hackworth--the author of my current headshot--and asked him for a more updated photo. One which admitted to my dark hair and longer locks.
(Because, as it turns out, when you are speaking at a conference you need a current headshot.)
Last Saturday Justin arrived at his appointed time and started to point his camera in my direction. He liked the newly golden walls and the red furniture with my black attire. I liked how he kept saying, "oh that is nice" or "yes, do that it looks great." Then he told me a funny joke (which, as it turns out, is only funny to a few of us on this planet) and left.
A couple days later he sent over the proofs.
As in, here we have proof that I am pregnant.
I mean, pregnant.
At first I was a little shocked. I couldn't believe how I looked, there was no way around it. My entire being was overcome with some hormonal aura. Even my eyes were flashing signals in an HCG-code. Chup and I spent time looking over the photos together.
"Is this what I look like?" I said, as if seeing myself in a pregnancy mask for the first time.
"Pregnant. Yes." Replied my husband.
During my last trimester carrying The Chief we were so busy buying, moving and fixing up a new home, there wasn't a lot of time for us to take pictures of my expanding belly. I recall a couple Chup took of me lying in the sun with my exposed lump skyward, but really, that's about it.
Honestly, I didn't know how I felt about seeing myself like this. The photographs were beautiful. Justin had delivered his poetic results--always interesting and timeless. His talent is nearly perfect. I just didn't know how to read me.
Me, looking like that.
Some days later I went back to look at the photos. This time I decided to look at them differently. I stopped searching for a headshot and started examining my body. My pregnant body. My skin. My cheeks. My glow.
(Because, as it turns out, when you are pregnant you sort of glow. I guess.)
And here is this: I carry my pregnancy all over my being. It is in my arms, my legs, my feet. I am pregnant in my hair and in my rapidly growing nails. My state is not defined only in my belly (as it is for many blessed women) but in my chest (oh, in my chest) and on my skin. And there it is, written all over my face.
I see in me a shade of Grandma Marion--a natural waddler who holds no pretenses about being delicate. I see my Nana Aurora who fought four hard pregnancies and still played the organ at church every week. And without getting too crazy, when I look at the photos I am forced to think about the man who loves me.
(Because, as it turns out, he had something to do with me looking this way.)
I wonder about how he loves me like this. Even when it perplexes me, stuns me and makes me wonder if I will ever be . . . less-fleshy . . . again. Or when. But the more I look at these photos, the more I think I love him. For loving me. For encouraging me to appear this way as many times as I can in this lifetime. Even for being the genetic stylist behind this look.
It might take me a few more pregnancies, but I am starting to feel comfortable with this pregnant person.
I also think I see a girl.
But, as it turns out, only time will tell if I am right about that.
Because this blog is really for posterity, here are extras:
And there are more to be seen over on Justin's blog.
Post Edit: I am also pregnant in my fingers, toes, chin(s) and knees. But my wrists and ankles were somehow spared. It must be said.
On dear cjane today:
Crystal B. is a giving soul
& Madame Lucy earrings:
On c jane's Guide to Provo:
Meet my new favorite Provonians!