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.