Chapter 9 woohoo!
Disclaimer: I don't own Victorious. If I did the new episode would come FASTER!
In the beginning, it had all seemed so simple. Pick up a few books, have a few frank chats about how the name Amanda just didn't sound right, and how Damon was just not the right name at all. Go out shopping for new clothes, watch as your body grows right in front of you. Wake up at 3 in the morning and beg your husband to get you some beef tacos and peanut butter, go out to buy new shoes because you found out your feet do in fact swell with the extra weight. Go to the doctor to be told that you need to gain a certain amount of weight to be healthy, go out and put sardines on your pizza, even though you know you absolutely detest them. Wake up and do the same routine again. But I quickly found out that pregnancy wasn't everything they told you in the books. 'You may experience morning sickness' turned into spending hours sprawled out on the linoleum floor, head bend over porcelain. 'Your feet may swell due to extra weight' turned into buying all new shoes because my feet had grown two sizes with the swelling, and having to wear granny shoes because nothing else was comfortable to stand on while working. Auditions grew fewer and fewer because nobody would hire somebody who was seven months pregnant. I was now reduced to lying on the couch in the living room, watching day time soaps and crying when the littlest thing happened, even though I had no clue what was even happening. Because they tell you you'll only get 'a little' emotional when you're crying over not being able to open the mayonnaise jar, and you'll grow 'so much you won't be able to see your feet at times.' although your feet will grow too.
I stand in front of the mirror, wearing a bra and yoga pants and staring at my stomach. I wonder why I'm not growing like I'm supposed to. I rub my stomach but feel nothing in return. I know there's a little life in there, a combination of Beck and I, but I can't seem to come to any sort of reality that it'll be okay. Even at seven months there's not much to say about my stomach. People still think I'm just fat. Fat and cranky, and overemotional because I'm fat. Girls still hit on Beck, although I'm pretty sure that if I grew a little more, they'd back off. He always tells them that I'm pregnant, and they look at me like I'm some sort of joke. Maybe it's my emotions on overdrive, but aren't I supposed to be bigger?
I wake up feeling lazy and sick to my stomach. The same routine again. I pull myself out of bed and into the shower, where the warm water gives me a moment of peace. I wish I could bottle the feeling and keep it with me all day, because I know I'll need it again. When I finish my shower it's nearly ten in the morning, and I curse my laziness. I call Cat and delay our plans, promising to be there an hour later than we had originally planned. After eating for two, I lounge around the house, surprised that haven't had to make a visit with my best friends linoleum and porcelain this morning. I flip through the channels on the television until I come across a Spanish soap opera. I turn the volume to mute, and begin one of my favorite daytime hobbies. I watch as people pace back and forth across the screen, and when someone opens their mouth, I say what I think they should say. By noon I had made a very elaborate story, and just as Jose was going to tell Maria how he felt, I felt someone sit next to me on the couch.
"I used the key in the fake rock. You really need to get out of this house." Her red velvet hair is pulled up into a loose bun, and her slim figure makes me feel better about my health. She pulls me from the couch and we drive to Buca Di Beppo, an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica. The drive isn't bad, and we pull into the restaurant 30 minutes later. Cat had called her babysitter, whom she described as a sweet girl with the prettiest blonde hair and huge aspirations. Her kids were down for their naps, and everything was fine at the Shapiro house.
After we had ordered, I decided I needed to ask Cat some questions about my feelings earlier in the morning.
"Cat, do I look pregnant to you?" I turn in my chair so she can see the small bump of a stomach I have. She takes a moment to analyze, then returns to her food, contemplation etching her features.
"Well, you do look pregnant, but not a whole lot. You are a bit small for seven months."
"How big were you?" She looks embarrassed, then takes out her phone, flipping through Facebook pictures until she comes up with one.
"Well, I was really big with Aiden because I was always craving the weirdest things, and then with Clea my symptoms weren't so bad and I only gained around 25 pounds, which was actually healthy for me." In the first picture, Cat and Robbie are sitting on a bench. Cat's stomach is much bigger than mine, and from the date, this is her first pregnancy. In the second picture, she's balancing a two year old Aiden on her stomach, and both are smiling at the camera. Her stomach is still big in comparison to mine, and it worries me. She sees this and takes her phone away, putting it in her purse. "That was just me though, Tori. Other people react differently to the symptoms of pregnancy and stuff like that. And it's your first one, you're bound to think something like this."
"Like what, Cat? I'm freaking out because I'm not growing and that's normal?" I push my anger away and swallow back my tears.
"Well, it's kinda normal. You're not big, but you weren't before either. And the weight you gain doesn't usually even show in your stomach, so as long as you're eating healthy and going toward your target weight gain, you should be fine. Don't even worry about it." She makes me feel better, and we finish lunch talking about other things, taking my mind off of my worries. But as I'm driving home, I can't help but think that I hope she's right.
So? Good? Bad?
You know what to do!
-Hollywood :)