I’ve never liked the Alien movies.
Disregarding the 30 or 40 billion of you who are offended now, including Jon, let me explain why.
I read books and watch movies for escapism. I like to be totally immersed in another world, to the point where Jon knows he’s got to worry when I’m reading heavy material on pleasant topics like divorce, concentration camps, or growing up in severe poverty.
(By the way, this has only gotten more fun since the pregnancy hormones have kicked in.)
So, anyway, I don’t want to watch a movie where you’re in a constant state of suspense and are unsure that the main characters (who are pretty much your best friends now, because you’ve gotten an intimate portrait of their lives and souls and have learned to care about them in the last 60 minutes or so) will live or die. Or, have alien beings rupture their chest cavities as they claw their way out of their human incubation chambers.
But lately, I’ve started to relate to these movies.
Because, friends and neighbors, Baby Beast has started moving. It likes to hop up and down, and roll around on the left side of my stomach, and generally poke my bladder a whole lot. Instead of filling me with terror and fear, this is kind of nice, except for the bladder part.
And while I do share some of the negative anticipation (it’s got to come out eventually, and it’s not going to be pleasant, regardless of whether it’s an alien or a fetus) the pot of gold at the end of MY rainbow is significantly better than Executive Officer Kane’s.
To read about more interesting pregnancy experiences, check out The Sprout. Good luck, Sara & Abby, we’re rooting for you over here!