So, I know that this will be the third time in nearly as many posts that I’ve posted a blog with a list of things, but that’s just what I feel like doing today, and what Mama wants, Mama gets. I mean, that’s the dream anyway.
Today I am 38 weeks pregnant. Otherwise known as eight and a half months or 266 days, but let’s be honest–all we really care about at this point is that I only have two weeks left before this child gets an eviction notice. Also, I’m kind of a tough-love style parent. We won’t be doing any of that well-you-can-stay-as-long-as-you-pay-rent-or-maybe-at-least-keep-the-music-down nonsense. No, it’s time for this kid to get out in the real world and get a job…you know, like making people coo over you when you poop with such gusto that it goes up your back. Normal stuff like that. Non-parent readers; it’s okay, you don’t want to know.
So, what’s it like being me at 38 weeks pregnant?
Almost like a celebrity, but not in a good way.
- People take notice when I order that americano. Okay, so maybe I don’t have my picture in people magazine because of my coffee consumption, but I definitely have my coffee choices analyzed by a bevy of bored onlookers.
- Shameless staring. I mean shameless. In the beginning, the staring is pretty cautious, since there’s always the risk of it just being a cake and ice cream belly, but by now I’ve reached the stage where baby “bumps” are practically public domain and men and women alike watch with casual, open amusement.
- Strangers talk to me like they know me, with–trust me–no provocation on my behalf. Word of advice: You have nothing to say to a pregnant stranger. Nothing. No advice (Make sure you’re getting plenty of rest now, Mom, because just you wait!). No comments on their appearance (Wow! Must be any day now, right? Yeah, I’ve been getting those for over a month). No reminiscing (Oh, I remember my pregnancies, such sweet memories. Mazel tov, now please go away). And definitely, no over-compensating compliments because you feel like you have to say something to prove that you’re not awkward (You’re glowing! No, Crazy, I’m flop-sweating out of every pore because it’s 90 degrees out.)
- The touching. Ooooh, the touching. You know how when you’re a celebrity and those crazy fans run up to you and try to hug you or touch you just so they can never wash their left thumb again? I touched Brad Pitts elbow with THIS THUMB! Yeah, I don’t really know either, except that I do get a lot of crazy strangers (WHY is it always the crazy ones?) attempting to touch my belly. I say “attempting” because I have no problem
saying “Piss off!”taking a step back out of arms reach and leaving them hanging. What? First let me stroke your belly and then we’ll talk. - People either treat me with bored indifference–which is kind of the way I always imagine I’d act around a real celebrity. Yeah, I’m in an elevator with Sandra Bullock right now. No bigs. She can push her floor button or I can…whatevs. Or, they treat me like a sacred cow. Any and all puns intended. Oh! Were you thinking about going through that door back there? Let me run back and open it for you. Can I carry something?”
Yay pregnancy. My next post will be a very graphic retelling of the downright savagery that is childbirth. Just kidding. It will probably be a couple of adorable newborn and sibling photos serenaded by my emotive writing on new life, new love, and the beauty of family. Because by then, I won’t be pregnant.
Nautilus Notes 