Pregnancy, in all of its beauty, can make a woman feel like a large elephant. And while people don’t mean it, things are said, mostly by husbands, and mostly on purpose.

Unless said by my husband and children, accidental insulters shall remain nameless. 

 

“Have you noticed how big I got this week?” I asked convinced that my husband would notice the considerable change in belly size that probably has mostly to do with eating donuts for breakfast, muffins for lunch, and cookies for dinner.
“Haven’t you been that big for a while?” he replies as stupidly as innocence allows.
With a shocked stare as my only response, he concludes, “There is absolutely no point in ever talking to a pregnant woman.”

 

As I dress in a particularly favorite maternity shirt, Josie, in notice of its impressive size, intervenes, assured that I am mistaken, “Mommy! Why you wearing Daddy’s clothes?”

 

As we allow Rita to dance to her new favorite inappropriate pop song, Jim suggests, “This baby is all about that bass!!”

 

“I feel like a cow,” I say, most likely because I ate like one. “Well you look like more like a toothpick with a big meatball attached if that makes you feel any better,” he offers the strangest compliment ever spoken.

 

Six weeks ago, in her first glimpse of me in a tight shirt, Josie expressed her concern that “Mommy, I think your baby balloon is going to definitely burst today.”

 

About 4 months ago, upon witnessing me in a swimsuit, an obviously unmarried, guy in need of training says,  “Looks like you already have that end of pregnancy waddle down pretty good.”

 

In an effort to get my attention, a particularly brave cousin shouts, “Hey KoolAid!”

 

When showing Jim my wayyyyy too small bridesmaid’s dress worn last week at 38 weeks, he asks “Isn’t the point of you guys to make the bride look good, anyways?”

 

Upon hearing friends were coming over, “Do you think he will bring cookies?” I wonder in delicious hope. There to crush my feelings and my appetite in one swift comment, my husband asks, “Are you sure you need that?”

 

In an effort to ask me to move, Jim says, “Hey Big Bum!” to which, before I can respond, he senses his error and begins to back peddle, yet dig his hole deeper, with, “That came out wrong! I meant that figuratively, not literally.”

 

After a glimpse at my back side growth, one could only innocently ask, “Have you been back squatting?”

 

At some point around 6 months gestation when this baby may have reached the 1.5 lbs mark, “So is that baby like 9 or 10 pounds by now?”

 

As I tried to both shower myself and my kids at the same time, which will never again happen, “Mommy, your bum is weallllly wiggly.”

 

Every few weeks, in continued amazement at the visible growth, James exclaims, “Wow Mom! Your belly is even fatter! Hey babysitter! Come see how fat my mom’s belly is!”

 

“You might be a wittle bit bigger than Santa Claus now,” my three little cherubs collectively decide.

 

“Seriously, the baby HAS to be ready to come out soon!” James exclaims while shaking his head in amazement and concern for my inability to tie my shoes.

 

While out shopping for a gift for my sister in law several weeks ago the sales associate says, “Looks like you are due soon! Is this your first?” To which I respond, “no its my fourth,” “Oh,” she begins puzzled, “what do you have at home?” “A boy and two girls,” I say smiling,” “What do you want this time,” she asks, “I’m super happy either way, but my 4 year old really wants a brother.” “Is that the baby?” she asks for clarification. “No, he is my oldest,” I say revealing my impressive reproductive pace. And with a jaw dropped stare she concludes the conversation, “ARE YOU TOTALLY CRAZY?!”

 

Only sometimes. But also, mostly.

 

Happy weekend!

 

“Rita, where is the baby?” I repeatedly ask on the hour. “Right here,” she asserts again self assured and with confidence as she points to herself. The gesture is not to be confused with the suggestion that she, like her mother, is carrying a baby within her own belly. Rather, she is sure to clarify with the statement, “I am the baby,” while staring directly into my eyes, without blinking or wavering, or even slightly acknowledging the imminent arrival of her younger sibling.

“What is in mommy’s belly?” I continue to jostle in a high pitched voice so as to indicate playful reassurance that all will be well as she continues to ignore in cold, staring, silence. Her reply is sometimes a shoulder shrug, sometimes a decision to face her back to my face, and most frequently a concentrated effort to change the subject as quickly as possible with the statement, “I pooped again.”

“Why don’t you feel my belly?” I offer, even more playfully, as her new little brother or sister threatens to bruise my ribs while their movement reveals the shape of knees, elbows, feet, and most especially noticeably, his or her bum through my skin and shirt.

I take her hand, place it on the moving limb, and she, stars again into my eyes, her bangs just over her eyelashes doing little to hide her insistence.
“Top it, Regina” she says, unaware of the hilarity of her silent ‘S,’ and no longer willing to refer to me by anything other than my legal name. Her tendency to refer to me not as mom when commanding me to “Clean this,” “Get this,” or “I want a marshmallow,” has taught me well that she does, in fact, mean it, and there will, upon my refusal to abide by her request, most likely, be consequences.

“Let’s feel the baby kick!” I insist again while tickling in a mother’s desperate attempt to prepare the inevitable shattering of her denial from causing potentially permanent psychological damage and/or a purposeful hockey stick to my newborn’s soft spot.
She smiles, lays on her back, and begins to kick me. “Baby kicking!” she exclaims happily as her foot slams into that of her unborn family member.

 

To Rita,

I really hope you like your new baby brother or sister. I hope even more that he or she doesn’t accidentally steal away your second birthday and ruin your life forever.