Are you a man, man? Are you a woman who’s never been pregnant? Are you… I don’t know… a person exploring their gender and possibly considering a potential pregnancy in the future… somehow… some way? Wanna glimpse into what it’s like?! I’m here for you.
In today’s world, there are three kinds of people. People who are here because of a successful pregnancy and people who are because of… okay, actually there is only one kind of person in that respect. We basically all got here in one way and one way only.
But in the world of political correctness (a strange limbo world that doesn’t apply to pregnant women), there actually are three kinds of people: Those who do not comment, those who occasionally comment, and those who comment on whatever the hell they want to. Quite like politics. But being pregnant and the recipient of these comments is way more annoying than listening to people talk about politics. How could that be, you ask? What is more annoying than people talking about politics?!
“Look at you! You really popped! You’re pregnant everywhere all of a sudden! Your face is so wide now!”
“Aw! It’s so cute how you waddle!”
“No, no, don’t go get that for her! Let her run for it. The more she exercises, the easier her delivery will be.”
“Boy, your promotion must be treating you good! Because ever since you got it, you got FAT!”
“Move over, fatty!”
“Clear the road, wide load coming through!”
“What’s wrong with you, are you tired or something? You’re not any more tired than the rest of us.”
These are a few of the comments I’ve gotten… in the past month alone. My husb, bless him, when I come home with these stories, gets enraged. “That’s low class!” he yelled last week. “Those are low class people! No one with any sense would say something like that! What did you do when they said it?”
Well, I dropped my eyes. I laughed along. I patted my belly and smiled. And to be honest, I silently thanked my parents for the incredible self-esteem they instilled in me that stopped me from running out of the room crying. Move. Over. Fatty. WTF?
Currently, I weigh… okay, let’s be real, I don’t have THAT much self-esteem. I’m not telling. But I will offer this mortifying tidbit up: I currently weigh more than roughly, I’d wager, 80% of the guys I’ve ever dated. What does that say about them, huh? HUH? Skinny-ass punks! Anyway…
My husband (shut up, he still weighs more than me… and I WILL find a way to keep that ratio going… Hon, I made dinner! Here, have seconds…) keeps kindly reminding me that I weigh the weight of two people because I AM two people right now.
But let me tell you something important… I don’t feel fat. I don’t feel like a “wide load.” I know I’m about to be 8 months pregnant in a few days, and I know my body is doing an incredibly miraculous thing… and holding up rather well for it. Actually, I think the belly itself is cute and that’s really the only place I’ve put on any of the very reasonable 23 lbs I’ve gained. You’re probably thinking, Ok, so why are you complaining, then?
The thing that really gets me is that the whole damn world is up in arms over women’s issues right now. Equality in the work place. Wage gaps. Sexual harassment. Sexual assault. Slut shaming. Fat shaming. So why is this obnoxious pregnancy commenting still perfectly tolerable? Why is pregnancy the only time these days when it’s appropriate to publicly objectify women’s bodies? Okay, whoa, I came here to laugh and be enlightened, not to listen to a soap box speech. I know. I’ve been writing for public consumption for a long time now, and if you read me, I know why you read me at this point. But hear me out for a sec…
When I was younger and admittedly substantially hotter than I am at 34 and pregnant (if THAT isn’t the lamest pitch for an MTV show ever…) there were many times in my life that men walked up staring my body up and down and said some creepy, uncalled-for thing. When you’re young like that, you often don’t have the self-confidence to say, “What the hell is your problem, ya freakin’ dirtbag?” or “In your dreams, a-hole.” I always said it on the inside, but that smile-and-run instinct told me if I pissed him off could end up spending my evening trying to kick my way out of his trunk, and so I never said anything. (Except to this filthy old German man I worked for for awhile at this car company in Los Angeles. He got a piece of my 22 year-old mind. I still say if you don’t have at least 19 #metoo stories, you can’t even be a woman. Disgusting. I digress…)
Once you hit 30, that doesn’t happen as often. Construction workers don’t whistle as much. Old groovers in the next car blow fewer kisses at red lights. You can finally quit wearing the fake engagement ring in bars once you get a real one! Score! And you forget… forget how people can be when they feel entitled to piece of you. When you’re young and beautiful, people think you’re public property, there for everyone to enjoy looking at. They can walk up and comment on your face, your legs, your body, whatever. And they know you don’t have the guts to say anything. Suddenly, it’s like that when you’re pregnant, too. After years of mean-mugging gawkers and dirty dirtbags, they come out of the woodwork again quicker than Jack Nicholson in that part of The Shining where he was baaaaack. They still stare OPENLY (“Let me get a look at you!”) at your body, your giant boobs, your wider butt (which is, like, a cool thing now) and they feel free to COMMENT on it! And everyone just smiles and laughs. Ha ha ha. Look at her. Move over, fatty.
A year ago, if a casual acquaintance, a random dude, the grocery lady, someone I encounter at work, just rolled up oogling me and commented on my body, they would have been met with a tirade the likes of which you ain’t seen in a long time, baby! But now. Now they do it. And we pregnant ladies let them because it’s all so embarrassing any way that it’s easier just to get the moment over with than drag it out.
What’s my point? I don’t know. I’m just bitching, really. But I guess it’s this. Be freakin’ nice. I’m going to be someone’s mother in a couple weeks. You got a ma. Before you make some dumbass comment to a pregnant lady, think about someone saying that to your own mom. And then think about that girl in front of you for a second…
Dude, you have no idea how tired she is.
How she’s had a headache for literally two months.
How at about 8 weeks along she looked at her closet of clothes and knew she wouldn’t be able to wear them again for at least another year.
How not one pair of her shoes fits anymore.
How her ankles are so swollen that she can’t even wear socks. In January.
How people won’t stop telling her graphic, gruesome horror stories of labor and delivery and vaginal stitching… over lunch.
How much she misses being able to escape reality for an hour with a couple glasses of wine.
How turning over in bed takes courage, a high pain tolerance and about 90 full seconds. 20x a night.
How the purple stretch marks are scarring her up faster than Harry Potter at the hands of Voldemort.
How she’s sacrificing what she loves and isn’t blogging much anymore because the pregnancy carpal tunnel makes typing so painful. (Maybe that one’s just me.)
How. Freaking. Bad. It. Hurts. Just. To. WALK. Most. Days.
How she worries non-stop about that little baby in her belly and whether she’s going to be a worthy mom to it.
How she’s never alone these days, but has probably never felt more alone in her life.
Think about those things and then decide if you want to call her “Fatty” or “Wide Load” or make her run errands for you to “help” her delivery or tell her she looks like she’s about to pop. Ohhh, she’s about to pop, alright… right off on yo’ ass!
I’m joking, but I’m not. I’ve never in my life had more respect for the process that got us all here. This journey is about intimacy that created a miracle that developed a person with endless potential, carried in love and pain, selflessly, through a very difficult 9 months. I’ve also never in my life had more respect for women. And today, I guess what I’m saying is, I just wish everyone felt the same way.