I'm still pregnant.

Seven and a half months gone, to be precise. Again, I haven't written for two months. For no reason other than I've just lost interest in blogging a lot of the time, like I've lost interest in photography, and maintaining friendships, and cleaning, and watching movies ... in fact pretty much everything that doesn't involve eating and sleeping/lying down, I've lost interest in. Oh and Facebook. Who could lose interest in maccoing?

No, I'm not depressed.

I still like spending time with Chef, (whom we shall now call alternately 'de Baby Daddy') once he's not in a cleaning mood. I'm still working. I seem to be taking a great interest in imagining myself telling other people how stupid they are and why they should fix their sad little lives. And I have developed an obsession with juice, even though my mid-wife has banned it from my diet. I am now a juice connoisseur. I know all the tiny companies here in Trinidad that make the freshest-tasting fruit juice - portugal, sorrel, grapefruit. I love them all. I must have juice. But I digress.

I have decided to blame everything on the pregnancy. Feeling tired/emotional/aggressive/frisky/hungry enough to eat a brace of ducks? It's the pregnancy. Can't remember to pay the mortgage or the cable bill? The baby made me do it. Have an unreasonably violent reaction to some innocent comment that de Baby Daddy makes to you? I am raging with child-making hormones ... although, in my defense, you don't tell a hungry pregnant woman who has just described in painful detail to you how hungry she is to "eat ah bake" and expect to get away scot-free. You're a chef, for goodness sake. Make me a sandwich.

There are other, funner things to blame on the baby too. Like sudden and horrific body acne breakouts. I have never had body acne ... didn't even have a good bout of face acne unless I was eating chocolate every day for a week. And now my once smooth, unblemished shoulders and bathing suit-ready back are ruined ... RUINED I tell you. The chicken pox skipped me but what miss you eh pass you. Constant heartburn and flatulence. Balance issues. Forgetfulness. Pregnancy rhinitis. Swollen limbs. Stretch marks. Vision problems. Dizzy spells. Moments when you gasp for breath after walking faster than a crippled slug. Weird pains in weirder places. Young grasshopper, these are the things that you have to look forward to. When you see the photos of unbelievably happy pregnant women smiling and glowing with health, just remember what my great-grandmother said and it'll bring you back to the reality of this thing: "A pregnant woman has one foot in the grave." It's not that we're not happy, but this thing is dangerous to your health.

And there are moles. Yes, moles growing everywhere. On my face, neck, torso, bottom ... Chef is of the opinion that they're not moles but skin tags. Maybe he's right, since about three of them that grew to disgustingly gargantuan proportions dropped off this week. But I still think of them as insidious, deceptive moles whose presence I shall point out to my first-born whenever s/he dares to cross me, saying, "These are what happened to me while I was growing you inside my body. Don't mess with me, or I'll kill you now just like I could have back then."

Then there are the leg cramps, the fact that it takes me five minutes to get up from a chair or bed (thank God for pre-natal pilates or I'd never move anywhere again), the campaign against wearing anything but skirts and dresses, needing to live in an air-conditioned room, the pain it causes me to pick up things I've dropped, the vivid and very strange dreams based on whatever show I watched that night ... I believe I said this before, but I'll say it again. Pregnancy is not for the faint-hearted.

You may be thinking horrified thoughts of police and social workers at this point; others will be searching through Rolodexes or library for a good counsellor or a book on pre-postpartum depression to refer me too. Have no fear; I love my little baby already. I'm just violently opposed to letting he or she rule my life, even from inside the womb. Yes, they clearly have the edge in this round, since the only glow my ashy, darkened skin is getting is from a vigorous weekly regimen of facials and daily deluges of Vitamin E oil. But Mommy will bounce back. And when she does, not only will my body not feel like it's the host of an alien life form (which it is, technically), it'll be perfectly clear who's the boss in this relationship, and it ain't Chef Junior.

And I actually like myself in this incarnation. No, this is not the person I'm used to being: more tired, more cranky, more juice-obsessed than ever before. I definitely don't feel pretty 80 per cent of the time. My nose is expanding like a pancake, my skin takes a lot more work to maintain than ever before and it's hard to find cute shoes if you don't want to walk through the mall to the shoes store. But mentally and emotionally, I feel freer than I ever have. Like I can really say what I like, cause this is me, my nigga (apologies to those offended by the word 'nigga'). I feel a little more secure in who I am right now. Cars stop to let me cross roads. Random strangers tell me where the bathroom is. I'm offered cake regularly. And there's a little personality that I'm just kinda getting to know now and I am excited to meet in person. Will s/he be stubborn and strong-willed (like both parents), or constantly hungry (like both parents)? Will they have Chef's sharp shins or my nose ... or both? Will s/he like juice?