On being prego
If there’s one thing I’ve learned while being knocked up, it’s that you should never, ever comment on the size of a pregnant woman’s belly. And it’s not because we’re self-conscious about being fat — I, for one, was relieved to finally be able to stop secretly obsessing about my weight and take advantage of the freedom of second helpings — it’s because it’s so damn annoying. It’s bad enough that we have to lug a 30- or 40-pound counterweight around all day, but now we also have to suffer inane comments from everyone from our mothers to the cashier at the grocery store. No, I am not “about to pop.” No, I am not having twins. Yes, I am very uncomfortable. Yes, I have two months to go. I’m sorry, are you an OB? Have you taken my fundal height measurement? Do you know what the hell you are taking about? No, I didn’t think so. Every woman’s belly grows at a different rate (some gain it all at the beginning, some all at the end, some gradually as they go), and they gain differing amounts of weight. For example, on Sunday, I was told I looked like I was going to “pop.” On Monday, I was told I looked tiny. Conclusion: you people don’t know anything. So just stop.