Pregnancy: A Retrospective

The oversized man stared down at my oversized belly, making no effort to conceal his squeamish and judgmental gaze. (Ironic, really, considering his companion was a batty-looking woman wearing an insufficient leopard-print skirt and the remnants of last night's makeup; you'd think his judgment could've been put to better use elsewhere.) "Yes," I thought to myself, "that unsightly lump under my shirt is a belly button, and no, I don't like wearing it any more than you like looking at it."

Thirty-eight weeks of being "with child" gives you a whole new perspective on society's etiquette (or lack thereof) toward the impregnated. Somehow, it seems, growing a fetus excludes you from the protections afforded by reasonable social tact. As I close in on the final days of this pregnancy, I thought I'd take a look back on these last eight and a half months and share some of the puzzling/offensive things strangers have said and done. As a bonus, I'm offering my own Emily Post-esque guidelines for interacting with pregnant strangers.

There's a right way and a wrong way to stare. Staring is inevitable. I get it. It seems like a physical impossibility that I should be upright without some sort of support beams counterbalancing this very front-heavy body. But like the oversized man should've known, pregnancy makes you a lot of things (big, bitchy, hungry, etc.), but it doesn't make you blind. I may have lost the ability to see my own toes, but I can still see your mean stares.

Etiquette by The Crazy Preggo: If you cannot unglue your eyes, at least plaster on an obligatory, if not-quite-genuine, smile. This will trick the naive, optimistic Preggo into believing you're sending along sweet well wishes about her impending motherhood, even if all you can think about are stretch marks and sleepless nights and a constant stream of baby poo.

Keep your hands to yourself. I used to think that Stranger Belly Touches were the stuff of legend; however, the close-talking woman on the T last week set me straight. I could feel her watching me and was worried the intensity of her stare was about to burn a hole through my uterus. Before I could escape, she approached, hand extended, and laid it on The Belly as she asked, "So has this pregnancy been really difficult for you?" So. Very. Creeeeepy. Lady, I'm scowling because there's a strange hand on my abdomen and a whacko trying to play shrink. It's not me, it's you.

Etiquette by The Crazy Preggo: Just. Don't. Touch. No, seriously. It's weird. Always. No exceptions. If you're not on hugging terms, you're most certainly not on belly-rubbing terms. And unless you want to hear about some stranger's swelling extremities and decreased bladder control, I would stay away from inquiring too pointedly about the hardships of her pregnancy.

(Please note that if you're reading this, you're probably not a stranger and I've never been the least bit offended or bothered by anything you've said or done or grabbed. And anyway, I lost skin sensation on my belly months ago, so I probably didn't even know you were touching me.)

It's still not okay to make someone else's waist size the topic of conversation. When I was six months pregnant, a Starbucks barista asked me how far along I was, listened to my answer, failed to use her brain-to-mouth filter, and in an annoying singsong voice said, "Wow! You're really big already!" Umm, yeah, thanks. Now how 'bout you get back to making my triple-fat venti latte with whipped cream and caramel sauce and leave the fundal height assessment to my OB. Sheesh.

(And for the record, my fundal height is perfectly normal and I really ordered a tall unsweetened iced coffee with soy milk. So there.)

Etiquette by The Crazy Preggo: If you feel compelled to offer a non-neutral comment about a Preggo's belly, keep it in the "your bump is so cute!" or "you carry it so well!" vein. When you're rather rotund, borderline immobile, and can no longer tie your own shoes, these little gems can't come often enough. Much better than being indirectly told you look like a whale. (Rumor has it that it's equally off-putting to be told "you're so little," though I can't confirm through personal experience.)

If you're not going to say it's close, don't say anything at all. Just the other day, a stranger asked me when I'm due. Relieved to finally be full-term and nearing the finish line, I cheerfully responded, "September 14!" He flatly replied, "Oh, well, you've still got a ways to go." Wait, really? I have completed 95% of my pregnancy. The only way I get out of bed in the morning is by telling myself that this baby is coming out any day now. At any given point, I can tell you exactly how many days stand between me and my due date (ahem, 14). Saying "you've still got a ways to go" is like telling a marathon runner at mile 25 that he basically still has the whole race ahead of him. Bad form, Mr. Naysayer Man, bad form.

Etiquette by The Crazy Preggo: One simple rule: The Preggo is always nearing the end. Only eight weeks pregnant? "You're already 20% of the way there!" Just conceived? "Wow! Two weeks down already!" Why do you think The Gods of Obstetrics made pregnancy math so illogical, starting the 40 week countdown two weeks before there's even an embryo? The Preggo needs to feel like she's already made progress in her seemingly endless gestational march. Help her preserve her sanity and always just pretend it's almost over.

Before I close, I have to say that my experience being pregnant has (to sound as cliche as possible) somewhat renewed my faith in humanity and the treatment from most strangers has been rather endearing. Dour-looking women in a ladies' room line who suddenly soften when they see The Belly and insist that you get to pee first. Homeless men on the street who offer blessings for your unborn rather than soliciting you for spare change. Drivers that stop at a green light to let you cross. (I said endearing, not safe.) Bus passengers who insist that you take their seat. Other pregnant strangers who greet you a knowing smile and a wave. Only a couple more weeks of VIP stranger treatment, and while my body is ready to share Mini-Person-carrying-responsibilities with Aaron, this has been a really fun ride.

In Utero Playtime

Turns out ultrasounds aren't the only way to see your unborn child. When there's a pinball-like fetus bouncing off the sides of your uterus, it's easy to spot a protruding limb every once in a while. I like to take these opportunities to "play" with the Mini-Person. In my mind, he's playing back. In reality, I'm probably just annoying the crap out of him.







Daily Stats
Days till Due Date: 20
Nighttime Bathroom Trips: 4
Belly-Related Comments from Strangers: 10

Belly Overload

Disclaimer: There's a whole lotta belly in the post below. Please reconsider scrolling down if you have an aversion to bulbous midriffs or freakishly inverted belly buttons.

Last Friday, my very generous and talented brother agreed to take a series of maternity photos to help me remember this exceedingly large time in my life. With an eight-month-old fetus attached to the front of you, it's a little hard to dream up creative poses, but I think Robert did an amazing job of capturing the essence of The Belly in all its gigantic glory. (And he was very accommodating when his whiny, less-than-agile, drama queen sister "got stuck" in different positions and "required" constant assistance getting upright. Love ya, Rob.)

PS: The gleaming belly is a product of eight months of obsessive vitamin E application, not an attempt at a greased up Baywatch sheen. Despite our best efforts to tamp down the glow using blotting powder, the belly shined on. Ahh well, at least we know my midsection won't be prone to premature aging.

My old baby shoes atop my new baby bump.

Oh hello, weird belly button. I won't miss you when you're gone.

That thing looks fake. Aren't you glad it's someone else's problem?

A home for the Mini-Person

Special thanks to Jamie and Robert who helped me paint and stencil the whole room! Turns out that between multiplying-via-marriage and acquiring adult skills, the value of younger siblings just increases over time

Photo-shoot-turned-dance-off. This commemorates the start of a lifetime of having a horribly embarrassing mother. Sorry, Baby.

I'm officially *that* person

You know what I’m talking about. And if you pretend not to, you’re just being polite. But it’s okay. You can judge. As of today, I have officially turned into *that* person. The one with a blog about her kid. (A kid, mind you, that hasn’t even left the womb yet.) The one who has endured months of fickle hormones and innumerable potty breaks to earn her own voice in the age-old dialogue about the joys and struggles of parenting. The one who [naively?] believes there are enough people out there willing to sift through pictures of her offspring to warrant creating a blog. Yup, I’m officially that person. And I really couldn’t be more excited.

It’s funny how this moment somehow feels like the right one to put our world out there on display — a time when our lives will go from moderately interesting, at times (dare I say?) even bordering on exciting, to markedly domestic and mundane. Come here to read all about sleepless nights — not the product of wild co-ed shenanigans, but the screaming mini-person who wants his milk. Learning new languages — not to find our way around Southeast Asia, but to navigate baby stores and play groups. Trying out new recipes — not locally-inspired seasonal fare, but mushed peas and soupy carrots. This is excitement, redefined.

After Asia, I didn’t know if I’d have a reason to blog again, but I guess this whole parenthood thing seemed like as good a reason as any. For starters, I fully acknowledge that no one will be as interested in and entertained by stories of Baby Barasz as Aaron and I. (I also fully expect my filter for understanding this fact to be impaired once he arrives and even poopy diapers seem oddly cute and conversation-worthy.) A blog seemed like a good alternative to forcing emails/phone calls/video chats on our family and friends, letting you consume baby tales only as you want them without permanently relegating me to your spam folder.

I also think that the blog may prove to be an effective outlet for maintaining my sanity. I’ll be taking a semester off from school and staying at home through the end of January, during which time I’ll spend most days alone with the little guy. To keep from satisfying my need for adult interaction with a stalkerish number of daily phone calls to Aaron’s office, I thought having a blog might help channel some of that energy elsewhere. Even if no one is reading, I’m totally okay convincing myself otherwise and pretending someone over the age of 0.3 is hearing me.

I’m not sure how frequently I’ll post (as much of that depends on how good a sleeper Mini-Person turns out to be), but hopefully it will be quasi-regular and include some photos to keep the visually-inclined entertained. I promise to try to avoid over-sharing (though pregnancy has had an unfortunate ability to blur the outer limits of socially acceptable conversation topics) while still offering an honest look inside the lives of two newbie parents and one newbie human.

Daily Stats
Days till Due Date: 32
Spoonfuls of Peanut Butter Consumed: 8
# of Direct Bladder Kicks Sustained: 17