Your baby is as big as a cockroach

I subscribe to personalised email updates from an American website that aims to guide poor, hapless first-timers like me through 9 months of turmoil – the term ‘rollercoaster ride’ pops up as often as it did during those Life Skills lessons about The Horrors of Puberty at school. These emails tell me every week how big my baby is relative to a piece of fruit. Vegetables also feature, if no fruit has availed itself as being appropriate.

So far, The Lime (who will, at 13 weeks tomorrow, graduate to … what? An orange? A tomato? So many possibilities!) has been a whole lot of items on a vegan’s shopping list, from a lentil to a blueberry to a kumquat (no, I don’t know how big a standard kumquat is, either).

But wouldn’t it be a total mind-fuck if they told you how big your baby was in comparison to something icky? Like, “This week, your baby is as big as a sub-adult female tarantula”, or “This week, your baby is the size of a maggot/grasshopper/small toad”.

At least that would give an idea of an actual body. This fruit stuff makes me imagine that the little creature is perfectly round. And that, if you peeled her, she’d split into segments, and would work really well as a chaser for shots of tequila.

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  1. Simon

     /  October 12, 2011

    American cockroach or international standard?

  2. Parktown prawn?

  3. David

     /  October 17, 2011

    Love Letter, Sylvia Plath

    Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
    My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
    I started to bud like a March twig:
    An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
    From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
    Now I resemble a sort of god
    Floating through the air in my soul-shift
    Pure as a pane of ice. It’s a gift.

    Old Sylvia still swings it methinks…Let me get out of your blog


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