If a woman's pregnant body was a math equation, I think it would look something like this:
Boobs > Bladder
In other words, the boobs are directly related to, but inversely proportional to, the bladder.
Or, in other, other words: I think part of my bladder has inexplicably found its way into my boobs. Or something.
Because I certainly can't explain all the peeing. I mean, where is all this liquid coming from? I don't remember drinking enough throughout the day to send me running to the toilet every 62 seconds. It's like as soon as my bladder detects that even the slightest amount of space has been filled, my brain receptors tell me it's time to go to the bathroom. Again. Right now. If not sooner. Or you'll find yourself in a very embarrassing situation and people will start calling you Miss Piss Pants behind your back.
Once I'm there, I get a few blissful seconds of relief. But that relief feels good. Unzipping-a-too-tight-pair-of-jeans good. Taking-off-those sky-high-heels-that-you've-worn-all-day good. Sitting-down-on-a-bench-at-a-mall-to-eat-a-warm-salty-pretzel-after-a-long-afternoon-of-shopping good.
But as soon as I stand up and zip up, the clock starts ticking again. I know I'm on borrowed bladder time and that the toilet and I will be seeing each other again soon. So soon that it's ridiculous to flush every time that I go. If I did, not only would someone from the local water authority show up at my front door asking to check whether a pipe burst, but I'm pretty sure whatever reservoir our community runs off of would dry up. It would spark a huge investigation because all the fish and aquatic life would die, then an angry mob would pound on my door demanding an explanation. And all I would be able to say is, "Hold on a sec, I've gotta pee."
So I flush, on average, every four times or so. And that seems to amount to one non-pregnant trip to the bathroom. Of course, this only applies to my own toilets at home. When I'm in public, I flush every time -- because I don't want people whispering the words "forgot" and "flush" behind my back. To hell with water conservation. I have a reputation to uphold. One that involves basic personal hygiene.
The nights are the worst. If I didn't get up at least two times to stumble to the bathroom, I'd end up having to change my sheets every day. That, and depending on where my dog has wedged his tiny body, the morning might require some puppy shampoo, too.
So when I start dreaming about waterfalls or swimming pools or whatever it is that wakes me up with an immediate urge to expel my bladder, I oblige. I battle grogginess, darkness and door frames, because otherwise I would find myself asking a sales associate somewhere if they make plastic sheets for queen-sized beds. A, uh, friend of mine wants to know.
And during these frequent bathroom jaunts, I can't help but wonder where my bladder capacity went. I know there's the scientific explanation that my body is now a whirling pool of fluid that handles twice the amount that it used to in order to sustain this new life I'm carrying. I also know that this new life is encased in my uterus, which is neighbors with my bladder.
But all that seems so, I don't know, mumbo jumbo-ey.
I prefer to think that part of my bladder migrated up to my chest cavity and took up residence in my breasts. Because God knows my cups runneth over these days. And that is an explanation I can wrap my head around, if not my bra.