Jessica Simpson is pregnant. Let the speculation about losing the baby weight begin
Oh, good. Jessica Simpson's admitted that her belly is full of baby, not Doritos and bagel dogs. Or maybe the truth is that she, like many I know (or may have once been), is growing a food fetus as well as zygote in there. I honestly do not care.
What else is there to say? It's already been rumored a gazillion times that the pop star/actress(ish) was with child. She's been ruthlessly ridiculed for squeezing herself into "mom jeans" and photographed from a myriad of unflattering angles. I am pretty sure that some celebrity goss magazine or another has said (multiple times, most likely) every jab that can be made about Jessica's now-really-there baby bump.
The real excitement will come when she's seventeen months pregnant, is hobbling around on Fred Flintstone feet, and her boobs are just happy to rest upon her ginormous belly swell. Then we'll all get to wonder aloud (or in the form of Ryan Seacrest chatter or on tabloid covers) if she's OUT OF CONTROL with her pregnancy diet, on a rampage of eating whatever it is the unborn child demands. That will last approximately two weeks before the intrigue over how long it will take her to lose the baby weight will start thumping over and over and over again.
In the few precious months between puking her guts out and subsisting on Saltines and cherry cough drops and the gorge-fest of red meat-cravings and vegetable aversions, I hope Jessica Simpson can just enjoy her changing, miraculous body without worrying what folks are saying about her size. I hope she has the opportunity to marvel at how the body criticized for being too jiggly, too round, too up and then down, is making a brain, weaving together a web of veins, and piecing DNA together to make eyelashes and functioning kidneys. I hope that she can drink a half-caf latte in peace, happily devour a huge plate of Pad Thai her love ran out to pick up for her in a thunderstorm, gulp down a nasty-aftertaste pre-natal vitamin and guzzle a huge glass of milk all to fuel the happenings.
I hope she can move freely around the park or in the pool or on the treadmill so she feels more herself and less exhausted baby-maker without rumors flying about how unhappy she is with the pregnancy-induced cellulite peeking out from her maternity yoga shorts. Basically, I wish her the bump-growing time I imagine Beyonce is enjoying, with way more "oooh"s and "awww"s than "ewww"s and "ack!"s.
I wish for her some respite from all this madness to play dumb baby shower games, live in elastic waistband pants long after the child is birthed, and love the body so many loud people are so quick to slam -- at least for a little while.
Whether she gains a hundred pounds or the doctor-recommended amount, the only part of this story I am invested in is that one more mama-to-be feels healthy, happy, and good.
We can all put down the OK! and other rags long enough to send that message out to her -- rather than the one about watching her balloon up or shrink down or fail. Can't we?
More on Shine:
