don't knock it till you try it: pregnancy

One of the most mean-spirited essays I ever wrote was about pregnant women. Titled "Pregnant Women are Disgusting" or something along those lines, it was inspired by a former coworker who waddled around the office, grimacing while clutching her lower back, dropping her pens and then waiting for the rest of us to dive under the conference table to retrieve them.

I was repulsed. I couldn't believe she would come into work like that! There was no dignity in it. Plus, the pregnancy made her even more irritable and unpleasant than she usually was. The whole thing was very inconvenient for me, both practically and aesthetically.

I've never really considered myself one of those "pregnant types." Until lo and behold, one day I was.

I staggered around for a few days, trying to come to terms with it. Surely, the encroaching mediocrity of my life (suburban job, sensible shoes, etc.) would be hastened by the appearance of a child. I imagined myself meeting with a friend post-baby for my once-a-month social outing where I would speak in the third person, saying things like, "Mommy never knew how much she would appreciate a shower back in her childless days!!!"

Isn't everyone rendered tedious when they have a kid? I suppose I know quite a few exceptions to that rule, but I fixated on the worst offenders--the suburban coworkers with their "AVASMOM" license plates, for example. Filled with dread, I obsessed silently to myself, confiding in no one.

Eventually I calmed myself down and went out to purchase a couple books on the topic of having a baby. Although I would have preferred to go to Magers and Quinn, I didn't want to risk it. Instead I went to a bookstore near my corporate workplace in the suburbs. I found the two books recommended to me by a friend who hasn't been ruined by motherhood, and clutched them to my chest (so as to obscure the titles, the way one might conceal some pornography or a self-help manual) as I hurried to the cash register.

As the woman at the counter rang up my purchase, I felt strongly compelled to mention that the books weren't for me--that I was picking them up for my sister, or something. But I forced myself to keep my mouth shut.

Luckily, I didn't start to "show" for a really long time, so I saved myself the trial of having to admit to it too early. I'm still hyper-aware of the judgement leveled at pregnant ladies (being a former offender myself) and I didn't want to invite any unwanted attention if I could help it.

Now that it's pretty obvious what's going on, I've resigned myself to having to acknowledge the pregnancy in public some of the time. But the fact that people--especially strangers--even want to discuss it blows my mind. Despite some evidence to the contrary I am pretty much a prude at heart, sex-negative at my core from years of Catholic training. Being pregnant is clearly a sign that I'm "in trouble", visual evidence that I'm damaged goods. Embarrassed silence would make sense to me--not a battery of questions about how I'm feeling, the status of my "nesting" stage (nonexistent) and whether or not I'm "excited" about being knocked up.