A couple months ago, a guy I know at church put his hand on his belly, while looking at mine, and asked, “So when’s the big day?”
Knowing what he meant, I innocently responded with “What do you mean?” and let him stumble around until he passed off that he was asking about Denton’s first birthday.
A few weeks ago, someone I haven’t seen in a while queried, “So how are you feeling?”
“Just fine,” I answered. “Why?”
Startled, she replied hurriedly and in a very small voice, “oh. no reason.”
(In case you haven’t noticed, people always ask the pregnant people how they are feeling, and ask regular people how they are doing.)
Yesterday the librarian flat-out asked me when I’m due. And she wasn’t talking about my books.
NEWS FLASH, PEOPLE: I. am. NOT. Pregnant.
As a matter of fact, I weigh only 3 1/2 pounds more than I did when I got pregnant with Aviana, almost 8 years and four babies ago.
As I’m whining about all this, my ever helpful husband reminds me that muscle weighs more than fat.
Pregnant pause. (pun intended)
“Thank you, dear.”
It is true though. I had to order the largest size offered of bridesmaid dresses for my brother’s wedding because of my waist measurement. Unless I consciously suck in my tummy or wear a corset (where could I find a corset, incidentally?) I look about five months pregnant. Discouraging.
I’m going back to the gym–made it three times this week. I’m switching up the workout with crossfit. I’m still not eating (much) sugar and I’m still off soda. I’m drinking lots of water. And I’m trying not to develop a complex about this or get too worked up about it.
So if you see me, please don’t ask me about expecting. Anything.
Thank you, my fragile ego appreciates it.
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