It’s official. I’m huge. At least, the belly is. Honestly, I know I’m defying some kind of law of physics, and I don’t understand how I’ve not toppled over from sheer imbalance.

People – friends and relatives – are certainly getting a thrill out of my proportions. Generally, I’ve always been “the skinny one,” particularly within my family. I have an aunt down from Barbados, so my mother and I went to do some visiting on Sunday. I also haven’t seen my mother’s other sisters since the annual family BBQ in August, so I knew they were in for quite the surprise.

Sure enough, there was the widening of eyes and the cracking of jokes (“you look like an anaconda after a meal!”). While I could certainly do without the latter, I got rubbed and patted like Bhudda, which I didn’t mind at all. They are all tickled to see my burgeoning bump.

I read someplace that the third trimester is where babies tend to double in size, and I seem to be the textbook example of this. My father was away for two weeks, and upon his return on Monday, his first words were “Let me have a look at you!” followed by, “Holy, jeez.”

I certainly feel the difference. The skin on my stomach has darkened considerably and itches constantly, despite my religious application of balms, lotions, creams and oils. In the last few weeks, my sleeping patterns have changed yet again; I’m unable to sleep through the night, and there’s no way in hell I can sleep lying down, regardless of which side I choose. My navel still hasn’t popped. It’s just stretched flat and taut across my belly, leaving a shallow little dimple.

Sadly, my boobs haven’t grown any bigger. I’m going to have to be content with the set of small Bs I’ve been given.

What a difference a month makes.