More-than-a-couple but less-than-many years ago, I was pregnant with our first child. I went maternity clothes shopping two months before I showed. We picked his name during the second trimester instead of at the hospital. And I actually thought it was pretty cool the first time I threw up. (Morning sickness! No way! I've heard of this! Awesome!)
The one thing that What to Expect When You're Expecting TOLD me to expect that DID NOT happen was that whole belly button thing.
My Dr. Brother-in-law even had me convinced that it made a "popping" sound when it turned inside out. (Don't be too proud of yourself, Ben. I'm extremely gullible.)
But it never happened. Four times in a row, my belly button just stretches and stretches til it looks like ... a really stretched out belly button.
This makes for interesting entertainment, however. I like to run my finger over the smooth indentation, and play with the little star-shaped crease while I'm reading in bed.
(Some people twirl their hair. Others pick their nose. I play with my belly button. No apologies.)
So the other day I'm swirling around in there and my finger runs across this THING. It felt like a grain of rice, standing upright in a the centermost fold. (I'd say "centerfold," but that sounds wrong. This is a modest piece of rice.)
Except it wasn't rice. It was attached.
I poked and pulled and finally came to the conclusion that it must be some leftover shred of 28-year-old umbilical cord.
A pair of tweezers and a short tug later, My Man and I examined that little piece of me.
"Hun," says he. "Let's put it in the freezer in case you get cancer or something."
But I opted instead to toss it in the garbage with the used Q-tips, snotty tissues, empty contact solution bottles and dirty paper towels.
Kind of anticlimactic, don't you think?