Throughout most of this pregnancy, I’ve tried very hard to be a good sport. Sure, there have been moments, even days, when speaking to me has been a dangerous undertaking. But for the most part, I think I’ve been very tolerant of even the most asinine comments.
But you know what? I have no more tolerance left. And I’d really hate to have to hurt you. So, for the love of all that is good in this world, don’t utter any of the following comments in my presence:
“Man, you sure are getting big.” Really? I hadn’t noticed. In fact, I thought my current shape made me a prime candidate for the cover of the next Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Here’s a hint: if there’s a chance the pregnant woman in front of you can’t see her toes, it is no longer cool to mention her size. We don’t feel cute. We just feel fat. And you’re not helping.
Closely related to this comment is, “You’re as big as a house!” Which is funny, because, technically, if you’re pregnant, you are a house. To a person who’s getting bigger, and stretching your body further out of shape, every day. And you know what? That’s not really a lot of fun. Listening to people say things like that is even less so. So can it.
Another no-no: “Are you really going to eat that?” Whether the woman in question is eating a plate of broccoli drenched in strawberry jelly or a monster-sized hot fudge sundae, you’d be better off eating your own shoe than uttering that sentence. Food is one of the few remaining pleasures a pregnant woman has. Leave her alone.
And the worst offender? “Does getting knocked up give you a license to complain or something? Because that’s all you ladies seem to do.” My two word answer? Bite me. If you’d had your body taken over by an alien lifeform for nine months, been deprived of sleep, lost your ability to breathe, bend over or tie your shoes, and been put on a hormonal roller coaster with no off ramps for good measure, you’d be feeling pretty cranky too. So shut it, please.
Otherwise, that brittle smile and hollow laugh I offer you might turn into the snarl and hiss of rage it’s intended to be. And what follows probably won’t be fun for either of us.