If one more mom tells me, “Go to the movies now, because after you have the baby, you’ll never get to go to the movies again,” or “Go on a trip now, because once you have the baby, you’ll never leave town again,” or “Have a date night now, because you will never see your husband again,” I am going to punch her right in her tired, defeated face.
Hey, how about you shut your rude, projecting, bitter soup coolers and let me be?
Just let me just deal with the fact that I feel like I’ve been strapped to the spinning tea cup ride at goddamn Dizzyland for the last 11 weeks.
Allow my nauseated, terrified, pregnancy-hobbled brain to stick to its usual troubling fare, and by that I mean non-stop oscillating between thoughts of various fatal genetic defects and how best to phrase it to people if I end up having a “non-viable pregnancy.”
Stop to consider that as a first-time mom-to-be, I’m kind of overstocked with worries right now. It’s like you’re peddling mortgage-backed securities to AIG. No gracias, I got enough of those and they’re all toxic, anyway.
To see me all bulging about the middle is to know I’m in a serious “no backsies” type situation, so keep it to yourself if you think my life will be a dingy wasteland once my bundle of joylessness arrives.
Let’s talk about a girl named Kim.
Having heard I was pregnant, she messaged me on Facebook with the following advice, “Take a look at your body right now, because it will never look this way again. Your stomach will be so pock marked and stretched out, there will be nothing you can do about it, so enjoy it now.”
I barely know this woman, and while I am impressed at her ability to paint such a richly hued portrait of how crappy I’m going to look, I can’t understand what drives her other than pure evil.
Stretch marks are genetic, and they may also be caused by excessive or rapid weight gain. However, what if there is another, more mysterious cause? What if the collagen gods punish people like Kim for being passive-aggressive twats?
You can’t laser that away, Kimmy. See you on Punch you in the Facebook.If I do morph into a bleary-eyed, pock-marked, sad sack with spit-up and organic oatmeal in my hair who is too neurotically attached to her precious child to allow anyone to baby sit, I hope to have enough compassion to lie my saggy ass off when I see a pregnant girl and simply say, “You are going to love being a mom.”