Public Service Announcement

I am now seven months pregnant, or thereabouts. And yes, I look at least eight, if you go by how other women look. The thing is, other women are often taller than I am, so they distribute the giant basketball a little more evenly than I do. I’m also rather small boned, so the baby can’t hide anywhere at all. It just sticks straight out from me in a bit of an alarming way.

Lately, I’ve had lots of people ask me when I’m due. When I say June, there’s always a subtle (or not-so-subtle) raising of eyebrows, widening of eyes, or even, “Oh, that long?” It’s a little embarrassing, but it’s nowhere near as infuriating as the people who flat-out don’t believe me.

“Just don’t have the baby here!” I won’t. I’m not due for two more months, and I believe I’ve done this before.

“[Brinestone] won’t be here for Easter.” Um, yes, I most definitely will. But when I explain that having the baby within three weeks is very, very improbable, they respond with, “Well, if you do have your baby before Easter, so-and-so can cover for you.”

I get it. Lots of women deliver prematurely. I haven’t delivered even a week early yet. This might be the one time I do, but I’m not planning on it based on the size of my belly alone.

So maybe . . . maybe don’t comment on the size of a woman’s pregnant belly at all? Maybe acknowledge that different women have different-sized babies, that different women carry their babies differently in their various shaped bodies and that the woman herself is probably a better judge of when she’ll deliver than you are.

Rant over. Now a hilarious picture of me nine months pregnant with Duplo, my second.


Sometimes, I question my judgment.

This morning, I had some leftover pancakes and waffles, so I warmed them up for the kids. There weren’t enough for me to have some too, so I planned on making fried eggs for me. This is how it went down:

Me: I’m making myself some fried eggs. Those are the kind that are white all around with yellow in the middle. Does anyone want one too? Now is the time to tell me.

I was asking partly because I was trying to decide how big of a frying pan to use.

Lego: Me!

Nobody else answered, so I proceeded to get out the smallest frying pan and crack three eggs into it, filling the pan. Not thirty seconds later, Duplo finished his waffles.

Duplo: I’m still hungry. Can I have an egg?

I will admit I was less than nice in explaining to him that I had asked less than a minute before whether anyone wanted one and he didn’t say anything, and now it was too late to make him an egg. I said I could make one after Lego’s and my eggs were done, but that would be about five minutes (because the pan was cool), and then it would be even longer before his were done. Besides, I would have to cook eggs twice, whereas if he had spoken up when I asked, I would have only had to do it once, and he would have his egg at the same time we would.

The eggs finished cooking, I served them up, and I asked El Guapo if he wanted an egg. He said something, but it definitely wasn’t “yes” or “I want an egg,” so I just cooked one.

Not one minute after I’d cracked Duplo’s egg into the pan, El Guapo says, “I want an egg!”

At this point, I was eating. I had been cooking, spreading stuff on pancakes, cutting food, making juice, etc., while all of them ate, and I was done cooking. Duplo’s egg was almost finished. I was not making another, and I told El Guapo so.

I offered him a bagel instead, which he took but did not eat. After Duplo got his egg, it sat uneaten on his plate. Lego had only eaten half of his. A few minutes later, El Guapo started asking for eggs again, so I told him maybe he could have one of Lego’s or Duplo’s. Lego offered him his, but El Guapo would not accept Lego’s egg; he had to have his own. Besides, he didn’t want “a white egg.”

It’s times like these where I’m teetering so close to the edge of my sanity that I wonder whether adding a baby to the mix would push me over. What would I have done if a baby had been crying to nurse, or just fussy, or needing a burp, or whatever during all of that? I guess I probably wouldn’t have made eggs in the first place and would just have had cereal. I don’t know.

I know I have worried during each of my previous pregnancies whether I will be able to handle the increased responsibility and chaos the baby will bring, but somehow this time feels different. I feel so dizzy trying to keep up with the needs of three children sometimes that I can’t imagine having anything left over. I know people do this all the time, but I have to wonder how.