I hate to admit it, but I’ve become one of “those” women. You know the ones I mean, the ones whose entire life seems to revolve around their pregnancy and unborn child. I have fought this, actively seeking OTHER topics of discussion (particularly with colleagues around the office, and particularly if those colleagues do not have children themselves). I’ve even made silent bets with myself that I could go all day without mentioning it to anyone. It’s odd, though, as it seems as if every talk, every task, every event somehow leads to baby stuff. If all roads used to lead to Rome, now all roads lead to my stomach. At work I effortlessly (and without realizing I’m doing it) transition from my work to triple-checking the items on my baby registry to see if something’s been discontinued. Within seconds, I go from groundwater contaminants to travel systems.
I can remember in my life BP (Before Pregnancy, not the much-demonized petroleum company) when women either in my condition or full-blown moms seemed like dewy-eyed sheep, babbling about nothing but their bellies or their children. I couldn’t understand why the bloated pregnant women seemingly could not keep their hands off their own abdomens. I have to admit, I might have even felt some contempt from time to time. This came from the same brain who insisted on going out on her 22nd birthday and getting a tattoo on her stomach, loudly stating that it didn’t matter if it was on the stomach as she would NEVER get married and NEVER have children. This tattoo is still present, but looking more and more as if it was inked by Salvador Dali’s Tattoo and Piercing Parlor.
Some of it, I hate to say, is beyond my control. I have sat in people’s offices desperately sifting through my hormone-addled brain for tidbits I’ve seen on TV recently to bring up in conversation. Those very hormones (according to the experts) are what are making me forget things, even words mid-sentence, leaving me staring into space like the very dewy-eyed sheep I used to make fun of. For someone who has always been able to boast a mind like a steel trap, this is vexing.
I do now typically sit with my hands resting on my swelling gut. I don’t think that’s a matter of actively wanting to touch it as it is A) it’s a handy place to rest things and B) sometimes my little girl bucks so wildly that I’m a bit afraid that others will see and be repulsed. It is pretty gross to see an abdomen writhing like it’s full of snakes.
I guess I just have to let some of this stuff go. I can still try to tell myself that I’ll be cooler than most of these other moms. My tattoo will hopefully snap back. I can also hope that, like I used to, others are able to stifle any kind of impatience or contempt with me and be polite. Chances are, they’ll get theirs one day, too.