"Fat" versus fat.

Somewhere along the way, as Gilles and I talk in our inter-language somewhere on a continuum between French and English, the word "fat" has became a nice one. It started the first time he walked into an American supermarket and stopped short in the produce section to exclaim in wonder, "The fruit is fat!" (Could it be that which explains the average waistline in this country?)

The word has become especially nice when spoken with unseen quotation marks in the context of what might become of me as baby grows. This kind of "fat" would be pretty magical.

I'm not "fat," though, not yet. Today marks the completion of 22 weeks (how did that happen?) and I've gained a kilo, perhaps two. I'm thicker than I used to be but look thinner than at the bloated, constipated beginning. Flaunting a bump, as Us Weekly puts it (43,200,000 times), is not an option; there's nothing to flaunt.

I still fit into my low-rise jeans and can wear any of my tops. I did buy some maternity clothes, but only to stock up cheaply in "Europe's giant outlet mall"; they're not necessary right now and I felt like an imposter while shopping for them.

I also feel like an imposter when I have to agree with others' assessments – "Yes, I know I don't look pregnant ...." – and when I have to laugh through gritted teeth in response to jokes about surrogacy.

There's at least two and a half fondues of baby in me now. It's the length of a ruler. Where is it hiding?

It's doing well, growing nicely. It's just that I'm not.

Well, perhaps my thighs are. The weekend before Gilles left, he and I went on a little getaway in the nearest major city bigger than the one in which my family lives, the one he was flying out of. As he was scrambling to pack the morning of his departure, I was hanging out on the bed, in my underwear, relishing a spot of television (we don't have one).

As I flipped channels with my bare thighs sprawled out before me, they caught my glance – which became my glare, rather. They looked a bit bigger. A bit winter-whiter. A bit jigglier. And not necessarily in the glowingly pregnant kind of way.

I jumped off the bed and asked Gilles if they looked fat. I did not speak the word with unseen quotation marks. He did not notice the omission. He looked up from his backpack and appraised the offenders.

"Yes ... well, c'est possible ... I mean, no. No. No."

But such a no in face of a face turning thunderous is not what I would consider an acceptable denial.

He was saved by his flight.