As the mother of two late summer babies, it’s days like today (high 80s, enough humidity to make you sure you know what it must feel like to live in Donald Trump’s mouth) that make me silently repeat, “at least you’re not pregnant” approximately 600 times throughout. A few summers ago, when carrying my second child, highs hovered in the 90s for weeks. At times I wondered if I’d make it to delivery before I landed in jail on assault charges. It felt like no one seemed to understand that that last leg of pregnancy is generally uncomfortable in the BEST of circumstances and the addition of heat makes the extra 25,35,50 pounds feel like it is due to a god damn furry head to toe polyester bear costume. (I wore one of those several times too, so this comparison is based on factual information.) Leaving the house became an exercise in restraint as my inner monologue took a turn for “Roseanne and Andrew Dice Clay’s love child”.
Consider this a summer PSA. If you feel the need to utter these words to a pregnant woman in your life, or god forbid, a woman you’ve JUST MET, please know that she’s calculating just how far she can reach beyond her belly to strangle the life out of you.
“Are you sure it’s not twins?!”
Oh, I don’t know. How could we possibly even be sure these days? Would you like to bedeck yourself with a monocle and shove your Mr. Peanut sized head up there to inspect? Please. I’m curious myself. And then, once you’re up there, I’ll practice my kegels and KILL YOU WITH MY VAGINA.
“Wow! Any day now!”
(The disdain here is reserved solely for any shmo that utters this without any prior knowledge of the due date.)
Actually, I was due yesterday. Do you have any favorite dry clean only garments in your wardrobe you can go grab for me? I’d like to shove them down my pants and hope my water breaks.
Yes. Any day NEXT MONTH, you dipshitted mouth breather.
There was a house I walked by nearly every day on my way to work where a gentleman of leisure parked himself on his porch from what seemed like sun up to sundown. For WEEKS he’d toss this gem at me like it was the first god damn time I walked by. My response went from a polite “not quite” to clenched teethed “anybody’s guess” to a silent “I will suffocate you” stare to the eventual crossing to the other side of the street to avoid it altogether. If I had had a baby, I might have thrown it at him.
It’s. Just. So. Wrong. I don’t care if I look like I’m smuggling the blue ribbon giant pumpkin and the county fair under my car cover of a dress. Manners are manners. Also, I’m NOT FUCKING HUGE. 747s are huge. Elephants are huge. The GRAND CANYON IS HUGE. Get a little perspective, and a filter that sweeps up the crap that flows from your brain to your lips.
I’ve never understood why some people find it appropriate to make statements that would NEVER fly with a non-pregnant woman just because a freeloader has taken up residence in her uterus. Like suddenly we’re just some walking science experiment that has no connection to her ever expanding baby cooking vehicle. News flash! It’s NEVER OK AND NOW I WANT TO SEE YOU RUN OVER BY EVERY MIDDLE AGED TOURIST TAKING A SEGWAY TOUR.
“I didn’t think you could get any bigger! But you did!”
I liked to think people couldn’t get any more insensitive and stupid, BUT YOU DID!
So if there’s a pregnant woman you love, or you pass one in the heat, get them cold beverages. Go swimming with them. Help install an AC. Or at the very least, offer a silent nod of solidarity. But for the LOVE OF PEARL, do NOT say anything stupid. Because she may even write about it THREE YEARS LATER.
Happy summer, everyone.