Week 37

Your baby is now the size of a free-with-purchase turkey; incidentally, you feel about the size of a Macy's Day Float. Ginormous, you soar through the streets of New York City. Small children cover their heads in fear of your collapse; grown men step aside to make way; grown women shake their windblown hair and smile little secret smiles, the secret of which you're still a few weeks away from understanding and, quite frankly, a little scared of understanding. When your husband asks what you want to do for Thanksgiving you take it as a dig. Ha, ha, you say. Not funny.But then, maybe it's not so bad, being so high up there in the still-changing leaves and the wild blue sky. The air is crisper than you ever remember it being, and, looking around, the world--the world you thought you knew so well--is a whole nother place: pinker, sweeter, ready to be shared, to be passed around like so much cranberry sauce and stuffing while in the background the TV flickers again and again with the sounds of the parade.