This won't hurt a bit...

So I guess the beans have been spilled, the cat's out of the bag, the fertilized ovum left the fallopian tube.. It's visually and theoretically impossible to deny that I am growing a new human being in my body. And it's all been good news so far, so I don't mind penning a little tongue-in-cheek blog about it (since that tongue-in-cheek's what got me into this mess to begin with! BA-DUM DUM).


First off, it's freaky weird to be doing this. At first, it seemed like quite the bum deal to be so sick all the time -- and so spontaneously, too. I told the Mister that he better love this one a whole heck of a lot because I couldn't guarantee that any amount of mother nature's pregnancy-amnesia hormones that everyone talks about could make me forget lying on the couch unshowered, nauseous, starving, weepy and praying for death -- and want to do it again. Let's not forget my strange, very sudden and ridiculously strong aversion to poultry. Who knew?

And who let the hormones in? Shortly after our brand new, cherry red washer and dryer were delivered -- by "shortly after" I mean: 4 hours -- the washer broke. So all of that enviornmentally sound, tree hugging goodness that the washer assured me of, was lost after running for 4 hours on the first load (that first load pictured in the last blog..). I fell asleep on the couch (Oh yeah, pregnancy induced fatigue boarding on narcolepsy... Good thing I have always been a friend of "the nap") and awoke 4 hours later, not to my nearly-dry-spun clothing ready for the dryer, but to a load of clothing that was being washed, spun, drained, washed, spun, drained over and over. I called the kind people at Sears only to explain my washer/dryer dilema through a completely unexpected and unwarrented haze of tears and wimpers. The lady on the other end of the line seemed understandably confused at my emotional upheaval over appliances. "I'm *sniff* really sorry *wimper*, ma'am. I'm not *sniffle* this upset about the *wimper* washer, I'm just pregnant *snort* and have just found myself in *wimper* tears. Really, *big snort* I'm fine." Then I got, for the first of many times, the relieved response (because now she's dealing with a hormonal pregnant lady and not a certifiable nutjob who really loves appliances), "OHHHHHH! Honey, it's ok. We'll get it all fixed up." (And they did -- new washer and dryer chugging along enviornmentally well these days, thank you.). Meanwhile, my Mister comes home to find me in the kitchen sobbing over the calander, working out a new delivery date with the now-very-understanding Sears lady thinking that judging by my current emotional display I must have been molested by the new washer and dryer. Through the tears I explained that I was fine, the washer didn't lay a hand on me and that the Sears lady was making it all better.

I recently found online a shirt that I'm seriously considering purchasing. It reads:
Yes, I'm pregnant.
Yes, it's my first.
It's a boy.
No, we don't have a name yet.
He's due in June.
I am feeling fine, thanks.

Because that's all I'm saying anymore. Which brings me to my next point -- if women have been having babies for thousands of years -- the platitude that everyone seems to offer a pregnant woman when she worries about any aspect of her pregnancy -- then why does EVERYONE else get to say ridiculously stupid things to said pregnant woman? Pregnant women should be old-hat. We should blend right into society like the elderly -- just another sect of the population that we all know exist but don't need to make asinine comments to/about -- but mainly "to", in my case.

So I've been keeping this mental tally of all the comments -- however unintened -- that have come my way. I joke that I ought to write a book about them, but in actuality, it would be like 3 pages long, since the comments are short. And no one but pregnant women would buy it. And they wouldn't buy it because they're penning their own books about the stupid things said to them. So I figured I'd just go cheap and blog it.

#1: I'm now 6 months pregnant. Which means I've been pregnant for 6 months. Which is a long time. I was sick -- like, pregnant-sick, for the first, say, 3 months of that time. And in all that time, I've had the same job with the same co workers. So why is it that everytime -- and I mean, probably twice a day -- I see this particular nurse that I work with -- she asks me if:
a) I had any morning sickness. (clearly she forgot about my cracker inhaling, ginger-ale slurping filled days all those months ago)
b) if I'm still feeling sick anymore.
Now, I get that she's asking out of concern and sincere interest. But you asked me that 3 hours ago and I told you:
a) yes, a lot. and
b) no, not in the last few months.
And when you asked me that yesterday, twice, I told you:
a) yes, a lot. and
b) no, not in the last few months.

#2: Earlier on, I was having lunch with another co worker -- I add, a coworker I rarely see, am not terribly acquainted with and had never eaten with prior. It was a rare occasion -- both the 'having lunch' and the 'with a coworker' aspects. Hey, my job is busy. We chit chat about stuff and then we have this dialogue:
Her: So how far along are you?
Me: Uh, about 11 weeks.
Her: *disgusted face* Ugh, that's when I had my abortion. I couldn't wait. I was showing and everything, I was disgusting. Are you showing yet?
Me: .....

How does one find an appropriate retort to the old "that's when I had my abortion" comment? I get that we had a lot in common with eachother -- the commonground being pregnant-to-11-weeks part. But I feel our paths diverged from there.

#3: I'd like to group these comments into one section just because it was outburst of commentary on my physique that I appreciated. These comments explained to me why there are shirts for pregnant women that say, "No, I'm not fat. I'm just pregnant.":
"I can tell you're pregnant. Your face has gotten all fat."
"Oh! There it is! You're waddling!"
"You're pregnant? Oh, ok. I just thought you were getting a fat stomach."
"You can see that you're pregnant by your ass."
"Are you sure you want to be eating that? Seeing as how you're just going to be getting fat anyway, I thought you'd be wanting to cut back."

If I didn't have a husband who honestly and sincerely tells me how beautiful I look, good friends who comment on "the glow" and a scale that says I am gaining exactly what I ought to be gaining, I could see how I might be calling the Sears lady back to cry legitimately.

And what is with all the touching? People I work with touching me is weird enough, but strangers? I know this is, like, the most commonly hated aspect of pregnant women -- and people joke about it -- but people still touch you. Oh, right, I know. I should be glad to share this wonderful thing, and I should be glad that people, even total strangers, are happy for me. That's great. I'm happy that they're happy for me. But you touching me, and rubbing me BELOW MY BELTLINE is unacceptable. You might as well touch and rub my boob. Because it would be equally as weird and inappropriate. Plus, Hi. I'm a healthcare worker. I know what is, or what could potentially be on your hands. Thanks for rubbing it on my shirt and a mere few inches of skin and tissue from my unborn, immuno-comprimised child.

I was explaining this phenomenom to my Mister and he says, "What's the big deal? People are just excited for you." I say, "I know they're excited, but can't they be excited with their eyes and not with their hands? How would you feel if you told people you were an expectant father and everyone grabbed and rubbed your crotch to congradulate you -- just because they were excited for you?" He says, "Well, what would be bad about that?"

I am admittedly just starting to sigh and let the touching/rubbing just happen. I am helpless to stop it. I feel like I just need to join the ranks of the molested pregnant woman. What kills me is now at work, the older women -- the touchers -- will have one or, ha, two hands on my belly and carry on a totally non-baby-related conversation with me. For example, "Hey, Cathy. *two hands on and rubbing* Did you page the doctor about that patient yet? I was thinking *rubbing, rubbing* that we might want to move that patient to a different unit."

I once read a Dave Barry column that said that you ought not to comment on a pregnant women actually being pregnant unless you can see a baby physically emerging from her body. I think that's a fair statement. Yesterday I had my first spontaneous-stranger-spotter. I was in the elevator at work. Reading a Newseek. So I wasn't rubbing my belly. I wasn't saying outloud, "Oh, hello baby in my womb.." (Yes, I read Newsweek and, indeed, I read them in elevators at major metropolitan hospitals. I work on the highest floor. It's a long ride down. I take reading material. What?) A woman comes onto the elevator and after a moment she says, "Oh, when are you due?!" And for a moment, I panicked. Thinking: Christ, am I that big?! (And then we went into the usual script: June. Yeah, it's my first. Very excited. It's a boy. Nope, no names. I'm feeling great, thanks.)

But you know what? It really is exciting, for all my huffing and puffing. I've spent a blog complaining about the freaky parts, but the wonderful parts are the sincere excitement of my friends and family. The friends who haven't seen me in a few weeks whose mouths go agape and say, "Holy crap! You're having a baby!" Being woken up in the night because my little human is kicking/punching/mamboing wildly in his cramped quarters. The box of children's books that magically showed up on my front porch from a book-loving college friend (we've already started reading them to him, C, thanks!). The sister in law who arrived with little blue baby shoes with airplanes on them for my piloting Mister -- to counteract all the pirate stuff I've been buying.

And when, and if, #2 comes along I hear the fanfare is way, way less enthusiastic. So I ought to zip it, let the belly hang out, encourage people to feel me up now in these next three months before I have an actual baby for them to rub and hopefully not molest in the truest sense of the word.