He is Borat. He sinks into a warm bubble bath: is niiice. Takes a bite of crispy pear: is niiice. Snuggles into bed with mama and dada in the morning: Jammies: off. Diaper: off. <stretches> Ahhh, is niiice.

He takes my hand, leads me to the couch, positions me like a raggedy Jabba the Hutt doll and curls up, doggedly perching on the last remaining ¾ inch of lap. Cuddle, ahhh. Is niiice.

Everything ends with ‘okay’. Okay means Yes, please. But it also means OBEY ME NOW. Dada, cuddle — OKAY. As if to say “This is settled. It has been discussed and decided upon. I now give you permission to pass me that cookie.”

He is Obi Wan Kenobi: These are not the droids you’re looking for. You may go about your business — OKAY.

Meanwhile, I am a giant banana slug. It is the first trimester, the sequel. The movie trailer booms: "Like before, ONLY BIGGER! In a time when time stood still…"

I am plastered to the couch, constantly winded. Blood rushes from my head and legs simultaneously, begging the question: where does it all go?

<sssccchhwuck! as Kate gets hit square in the forehead with cluegun> Uhh, right. The Belly. Duuh.

I can’t stand or walk for long without bending over, bracing hands to knees. I lay prostrate with my feet up, one pillow between my legs and another tucked underneath The Great Heaving Mass.

Some wretched, sheltered dolt asked me tonight, “Aren’t you doing yoga, like last time?”

“Absolutely,” I replied. “It’s very deep. Only the most elevated of yogis can appreciate the intensity of such devotion to my practice. Twelve hours every day, sideways-sprawl corpse pose. Lululemon is on their way over right now to shoot it for their fall campaign. I’m going to be so totally IT.”

To the perspective of all except my fetuses, I am completely useless. They thrive despite me, a nutritional black hole. I crave fluffy white carbs, nestle quik, salty eggs and spoonfuls of butter. I inhale fresh broccoli and omega-threes as I waddle past at the grocery store, banking on osmosis.

Evan and I share cans of alpha-getti. There. I said it. I can’t believe I just said that, but it’s true. Justin asks me what we had for lunch, and I tell him, and he stands there grimly with his hands on his hips, shaking his head at me like I’m a dog that’s just shat on the living room rug. “Oh, not again! BAD KATE!”

On getting up from the la-z-boy (whose velour is now permanently wile-coyoted with an imprint of my pregnant butt) I’ve actually been heard to moan, “Ohhh, my sciatica!” while bracing my lower back with the heels of my hands.

I am, finally, sitcom-pregnant.

And on a related side-note, Justin is a saint.

“I can’t believe I still have, like, MONTHS to go,” I said to him last night.

“Me neither,” he replied, quite miserably.

See, I wait until he gets up of his own accord, then: Oh! You’re getting up? Can you do me a favour? Can you fill up my water bottle and cut up that pint of strawberries and grab me a cookie? But only if there’s chocolate left if it’s just the ginger then never mind because ginger doesn’t go with strawberry. And can you put on some milk to heat up and can you stir it and add nutmeg and vanilla? The real vanilla, not the cheap stuff. And then can you pass me the duvet because my feet are cold but I can’t reach them. While you’re there is there any chance you could scratch my…

Poor guy. All he wanted was to take a piss.

Just like how <cue movie trailer narration> IN THE BEGINNING... in a time before time stood still... all he wanted to do was PLAY HIDE THE PICKLE...