The insufferable vanity of (not really) getting "fat" and (not really) being a "grosse baleine": body image during pregnancy.

Posted for PAIL Bloggers' monthly theme, "body image." Click here to find and read others' contributions to the discussion.

Getting "fat" [quotation marks necessary]. Being a grosse baleine, a huge whale. Both are things my husband and I have been joking about for months during this pregnancy, things that I find funny ... but only because I haven't been and I'm not.

The truth is that my body image during this pregnancy has stayed as strong as it was beforehand. Although the adolescent years were difficult for me, as they are for most girls, as a college-aged athlete I came to terms with the fact that I would never be model-skinny and instead started to take pride in my tall, strong, capable body, the one that carried me through early-morning practices and afternoon practices and weekend competitions. The one that carried me through a month of snowy wilderness hiking and a handful of marathons and many more shorter hikes and runs. The one that carried me then, and still carries me now, through life.

Since those college days, a sometimes-waxing, sometimes-waning focus on health and fitness has helped keep my perception of my body rather positive, which is not to say that I don't have "fat days" or problem areas, or that I never find it impossible to find something to wear. Generally, though, I find that focusing on what my body can do makes it easier to like, or at least not object to, how it looks.

That general positivity has remained intact during these last nine months of pregnancy. Part of the reason for that is simply because for a long time my body didn't change very much. I've always looked a lot less pregnant than I actually am. For the first six months, nothing or almost nothing showed; it's only during the last three that a bump has appeared, although still not very prominently. (Photographic documentation is here if you'd like to see.) In just the last few days, I've heard questions like, "How far along are you, five or six months?" and "So when is it due, the end of summer?" Well, no; nine of them and next week, actually.

Usually the response to an assessment of my bump size as a function of pregnancy progression is one of astonishment, which I kind of enjoy and even take a perverse pride in – unjustifiedly, because just as it is for any woman, the way in which this pregnancy shows itself on my body is mostly beyond my control. A woman has little to no effect over whether she carries big or small, high or low, rounded or pointy, all in the belly or all over the body. It's just luck, if luck is the right sentiment, that my own bump is so ... understated. Discreet. Bien caché. (Choose your adjective.)

Public commentary on bump size, whether big or small, or "too big" or "too small" in the eye of the beholder and commenter, can be difficult for pregnant women. For somebody seen as "too small," the perceived message can be that she is not properly taking care of her baby, not properly nourishing it or herself. I've never had that feeling. I know that this little one is developing and growing nicely, even if that's not very visible from the outside.

What is visible, though, I love. What better reminder than this little bump that I'm not really alone, that I'm in the company of this sweet little baby every single moment? Moreover, and more selfishly, it perfectly disguises one of my afore-mentioned problem areas, a stubborn rubbery roll of fat that clings to my midsection no matter what I do. It's always been something that I've been sensitive about. I would constantly look down to check that it was under control. Now when I look down, I'm actually pleased instead of ashamed to see a protruding belly. That's a good feeling.

The part of how I look now that I can control, to some extent, although I haven't necessarily been trying to, is weight. At nine months pregnant, I've gained eight kilograms through eating what I want, my typical approach to diet, an approach that works because what I want is usually healthy. Any deviation from that is balanced by the base of my diet and by my typical activity level. My cravings this pregnancy are for fruit (melons by the unit, strawberries by the pound, and kiwis in threes or four), dairy products, whole grains, and a daily round of cochonnerie, as Gilles calls it (this gâteau à la crème was not gobbled in isolation!). Despite the cochonnerie consumption and strong aversions to other food groups that would ordinarily be part of a balanced diet, I think my body has found a good equilibrium in obtaining what it needs healthfully.

All is not quite perfect, though. That eight-kilogram gain is a bit misleading because many months of inactivity due to first-trimester fatigue and nausea and continued debilitating back pain have made me flabby. I've lost muscle and put on fat in its place. (Perhaps these thighs weigh the same, but their volume has changed, and I'm not about to put them to the pre-pregnancy skinny jeans test to find out just how much.) These limitations on what my body can do were initially difficult, but I've slipped easily into the laziness allowed – or required – by the demands and dictates of pregnancy. I miss being active, but the siren call of the couch is so strong that I miss it less than I thought I would.

In addition to the recent flab-for-muscle exchange, I have a new collection of little skin tags over my chest and torso and a wonky linea negra that starts on one side under my belly button and then continues on the other side above it in a bizarre zigzag that could drive me crazy if I spent too much time thinking about it. My legs are also swelling, more than usual, but this delayed spring that we're still waiting for has allowed me to keep them firmly under wraps most of the time; their elephantine-ness is revealed only at home, before Gilles and the cat, neither of whom seem to mind. So why should I?

That's all, though, and none of it is that bad. Although of course the most important goal for any pregnancy, including this one, is the good health of baby and mama, I will admit to being thankful that I've come through it relatively unscathed appearance-wise. I don't doubt that this would be an entirely different post if I hadn't.

Let that complete my round of both literal and figurative navel-gazing – but not before I worry that perhaps I'm speaking too soon. The due date is still one week away, and this could be the one during which I'll pack on a suitcase's worth of kilograms, develop a tiger's pelt of stretch marks, and explode in spots. It would certainly be just rewards for this little display of vanity.

this is 39 (weeks).