My name is Shannon and I am baby Tilly's bitch

What a realization.  At my cousin's wedding this past weekend, and sitting at a table with my brother, I mentioned something about not being able to eat something on my plate because "Tilly doesn't like it," which, in true annoying little brother form, he responded, "Oh so you're her bitch?  You're gonna take orders from a 24 week old?"

I sighed and admitted that in all my years of working hard to be a modern, self-sufficient and sustaining woman, a tiny baby that is just over a pound and the size of an ear of corn (according to one of the bazillion pregnancy emails I get) has completely and totally taken control and made me her bitch aka Mommy.

My foodie tendencies with an I'll try anything once attitude?  Out the window, in favour of PB and banana or pepperoni pizza. A sound night's sleep?  Nice try Shanny.  Tilly seems to be hosting a rave nightly, with the occasional high kick to the bladder.  And speaking of the unspeakable bladder functions, no longer do I even seem to have control of my own bowels, now a slave to Metamucil and high fiber snacks.  Apparently my bowels think I'm 70.

My usual lovely skin?  Okay, of course I usually get some zits here and there but now I feel like I'm 13 again and the 'before' in a ProActiv commercial and even my arms have strange red bumps all over them. My glorious mane?  Well, I'll admit that the curly-haired wonder has not always had control over the 'fro, but I FINALLY had it figured out only for the rules to change during pregnancy, with my hair somehow being frizzier and oilier than ever. I've gone back in a hot-tub time machine (although I'm not allowed to go in hot tubs anymore either) to that '80's staple, the ponytail scrunchie.  Thank God for the Whitetrash Whitefish ski weekend that forced me to buy some at the dollar store.  Yes, I am wearing a hair accessory from the loonie store.  Sigh.

My ability to see my feet and self-pedicure?  Completely disappeared beneath the belly, only to be observed when bending over and reverting to a child-like state, begging MY mommy to paint my toes for me.  Then realizing that when Ottilia's an adult and preggers, I will still be her bitch and painting her toes too. 

Hmmm... I guess that's what they mean by the circle of life?  Maybe I'll just hire a little Asian nail lady with a vibrating pedicure chair for 9 months...