My stomach is no longer a part of me.
It’s this gigantic, autonomous unit. It moves without warning. It causes me discomforts, I can’t detach from it, and it has a mind of its own.
When I described this to my husband as “belly claustrophobia” he made fun of me. Because technically that is not a proper use of the word claustrophobia.
The dictionary definition?
noun: an abnormal fear of being in enclosed or narrow places.
Okay fair enough. The “Word Wrangler” has been wrangled.
I can’t call my baby a parasite, but that might be a more appropriate word, in which case I have Baby-Parasite-Phobia.
It’s not my baby I’m having a problem with though, it’s the belly. And I’m not afraid of the belly, I’m more frustrated by it. You know when you get that angst in your stomach, that can’t escape it feeling you can’t talk yourself down off of, like highschool all over again? Sometimes I get that feeling about this belly I can’t control.
Maybe I have Belly Angst.
Most of the time I am delighted to have my belly moving about at will. I am amused by Baby Dub’s gymnastics and contortions and flips. It’s when I eat more than 5 bites of food that things get a little, how I say, claustrophobic.
There’s all of a sudden not enough room for my appetite and my baby. My belly feels tight and too-full and generally awful. I want to take another bite, but fear of exploding keeps me from doing so.
So perhaps I really have a phobia of Baby Dub’s claustrophobia.
Because when I eat a 6+ bite meal, Baby Dub is trapped in a more enclosed and narrow place.