Really?
Sometimes, other pregnant women work my nerves.
Mainly, I love them. I am collecting pregnant women right now because together we share what some might call “acquired situational narcissism,” but what I prefer to think of as “it’s all about us!” Who else would even bother pretending to give a crap about sonograms, nuchal fold measurements and leg cramps?
So, I really hate to turn on my own kind, but some of them have made my list of people I want to punch.
It seems kind of petty, I know, but I just want to punch pregnant ladies who get all bent out of shape when people rub their stomachs. Get. Over. Yourselves. It’s not like strangers are walking up to you for an ambush fisting. That would be rude, and unsanitary. No, they are just grazing your shirt.
And generally, it is not some belly molesting evil-doer trying to attack you, but rather a well-meaning and curious person experiencing the magnetic pull of your irresistible, giant bump. If you don’t see why that mesmerizes people, you just don’t understand the miracle of childbirth. Have you not seen TLC lately? C’mon. A baby grows in your stomach and comes out of your vagina and then goes to nursery school and becomes a full-fledged human being. If you think about it as if for the first time, and I don’t suggest you do this high, it’s mind blowing.
I get it. You don’t think people should invade your body bubble just because you’re pregnant. Yes, your body is still your own, absolutely. I just don’t quite grasp the near religious fervor that seems to screech, “Don’t touch me, because I’m so special that if your grubby hand goes anywhere near my Jesus child, I’m going to get regular people cooties!”
Do you really need the righteously indignant and borderline sanctimonious “Hands Off My Bump” maternity t-shirts and others like it available online and also in hell, where ironic maternity t-shirts are very popular? Talk about literally wearing your aggression and smugness on your sleeve.
If you want to hear a chorus of pregnant women shout “Hallelujah,” just start going off about strangers or even relatives touching your stomach, which is why I really wish I could relate or at least fake agree; I’d love that chorus behind me and I think it’s patently obvious I need validation like my fetus needs fucking Folic Acid. I just can’t.
I understand the pregnancy anger and discomfort and hormonal moods – I’m sitting here chugging Mylanta out of the bottle as I type this – but it’s really not the worst thing that’s ever happened. My specialty is whining about high quality problems, and this annoys even me. So kindly endure the four seconds of bad touch on your stomach or I’ll secretly fantasize about coming after your face.
