At church last week, I was talking to a girl who is barely an acquaintance and she asked ‘how far along’ I am. I said “34 weeks” and she said something like “okay, you’re speaking in pregnant people terms. The rest of us don’t know what that means. How many months along are you?”
For a moment, I remembered being that person. In fact, it wasn’t that long ago. In November, I remembered thinking it was weird that my doc’s office wanted to see me sometime ‘between ten and twelve weeks’.
Since that visit, I’ve been plunged head-long into preggie world, where baby’s progress is measured in weeks and days, and notated with a cute little (35w2d). Where poo and burps and toots and pelvic bones and perineums and dilation reign. I’m actually kind of proud of the progress I’ve made (still, some of it shocks me: you put garlic WHERE to prevent Group B Strep?).
I’m fully aware that I am locked into this preggie world that you have no need to know about if you haven’t been there. You don’t need to know about it if you aren’t going there. I totally understand.
But I have one request.
Please please please…even if you are a person who doesn’t usually think before speaking, and it usually comes out in a really charmingly haphazard way, I beg you: please think about what you say to a pregnant lady before you say it. More importantly, think about what else it might mean to her.
Let me explain. There’s no doubt people say strange things to pregnant women. They always have, they always will. Something about the obviousness of your pregnancy just paved a golden path for them to make a comment about it. They can’t resist.
Usually, it’s something totally benign like “when are you due?” That’s the easiest… it’s a simple answer, and the question doesn’t insinuate anything. Sometimes it’s “how much longer?” That one is a little harder, because I don’t know, and it opens the door for the I’m-not-going-to-complain-about-my-puffy-ankles-to-you-because-I-really-would-prefer-my-baby-be-born-at-a-healthy-time conversation. Sometimes I go there, sometimes I don’t.
There’s always the “how are you feeling?”, which is nice. It lets me know you care about me, but it also gives me the choice on just how deep into that conversation I want to go. It’s cliché, but it’s good.
There is one comment I’ve gotten that really made me question if the person was really thinking about the implications of her words. She told me my belly looked really small for how far along I was, and then asked if I was ‘on a diet’. Maybe to some people that means something nice. To me, she was asking me if I was starving my child. It wasn’t pleasant. Because even though I know I’m actually doing everything I can to not only eat the right amount, but to eat the right amounts of certain nutrients for the baby, every bite I took the rest of that week was tainted with that comment. I’m sure she didn’t mean for that to happen.
Another comment almost made me cry. Just today. Here it is: “Stephanie, you look like you’re about to burst.”
Um, okay. Wow. Just a week ago people were telling me how small I look. I don’t know how to take that. I (hopefully) still have five more weeks of growing to do, so I can’t wait to see what THAT looks like!
On top of it, it was shouted across a room full of people at my work. I decided to make it as awkward as possible for the person and shout back, “Um. Thanks?”
But now, at my desk, I have time to think about it. You know, that person doesn’t know that just two days ago my ankles swelled up and no matter how much water I drink they won’t go back down. He doesn’t know that this week I started needing a hand up from my husband to get up from the couch. He doesn’t know that just this morning, I had to loosen the strap on my sandals that go around my notoriously narrow feet because they wouldn’t fit anymore. He probably doesn’t know that any of those things happen when you’re pregnant, and it’s a weird feeling.
**
But there are some people who say really wonderful things to pregnant women, too, and they shouldn’t be overlooked.
There’s the gal who said “you look really healthy!” and the lady at the marketplace down the street who said “it’s the best thing you’ll ever do” and the pastor who married us who glanced at my belly and said “you look beautiful”.
There’s my mom, who tells me how proud she is of me and how cute I look in my preggie tops, there’s Vivian, who always says I look great whenever I see her, and there’s my husband. My husband who kisses my belly and tells me what a beautiful miracle it is, who thinks it’s adorable when I’m sweating and hot from being in my hot car and I take of most of my clothes and let the a/c vent blow up my back as soon as I walk in the door, and who tells me I’m beautiful every, single day.
If Will stays put for another five weeks like I want him to, I know I have many more stupid and inconsiderable comments to look forward to. They usually only upset me for a minute or so, so I don’t mean to complain. I’m surrounded by wonderful, loving people who mean more to me than a thousand schmos on the street.
I can’t wait for our Will to meet them.
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