THE question I think all pregnant women thoroughly dread from the casual passerby. I will, if I must, preface this brutally honest entry with the factoid that I do not always despise the “how are you doing” question. It can be really sweet of people to ask. But it can have different connotations depending on from where said question actually originates.
If it comes from my mom, or my doctor, it’s different from say, the random person I know has issues with being what most of us would refer to as “normal” in public.
The encounter usually goes a little something like this:
Oh look! She has a gigantic bowling ball protruding from her belly. And she looks like an evolving gorilla. The passerby doesn’t specifically say such things…but their eyes do, as they glance down at my bludgeoning top heavy body until they realize I’m looking right back at them and they now must cover with a question…Their eyes then make the socially appropriate jump back to mine. They then decide to top it all off with a classic: “how are you doing?” {Because this makes the obvious judgment behind their smug visage all okay…}
“Fine,” or “I’m here” I respond, with a half-spirited smile, hoping to end the conversation there. Short and sweet. I’m not a COMPLETE whiney butt. It’s when they press further with the conversation, that I begin to feel my first twinge of annoyance. It usually goes with, “well my wife got really large like you” or “I can’t believe you’re still here” or “your face looks ready” Or some other completely not okay and socially challenged statement at which point I really exhibit my stellar example of self control. Any halfwit would realize these are the unfair statements with total lack of a verbal filter. And I’m supposed to play the role of a traditional southern gal and smile ever so politely… when they just so happen to get me all kinds of riled up.
I have to continually comfort myself with the superficial acknowledgement that these people mean well. I know that. But let’s just face the facts. Sometimes, their true intentions are pretty obvious. Heaven forbid I over share. I think the only reason they ask me, is so THEY can.
Let’s have a replay, shall we? Of how the encounter WOULD go if I were in charge of the world and all things conversationally awkward.
SRRPB: (socially retarded random passerby-I can successfully make this judgement based on previous encounters and obvious cues) How are you?
Me: {cutting them off at the pass} Well, Jamin is out of town, so I’ve been chasing these two little nightmares around for about five days now-Aiden-STOP stabbing Emerson with that fork!-I have severe anemia, so I’m exhausted all the time. I have problems walking across a room without having to stop and pant heavily. This is merely complicated by a sinus infection, bronchitis, a really bad sunburn a few days back since I was busy taking care of these two at the pool. Yeah…little blisters EVERYWHERE. Speaking of my back, it seriously aches, and I have severe round ligament pain since I never finished breastfeeding Emerson before I was pregnant again.
Oh, you don’t know what this is? Sometimes I have problems walking and I think that I may need a wheelchair because it hurts so badly to take a step. Think knives in the groin. Stabbing. It brings tears to my eyes. The other morning I had to sit on a heating pad for TWO HOURS. The contractions have let up a bit, but if I’m really lucky, whenever I’m standing up, I may be thrown to my knees asking God for sheer mercy if this baby doesn’t decide to stick its foot through my hoo-ha while I’m shopping for apple juice at Walmart.
You think I look tired? Well, Emerson screamed for an hour and a half in the middle of the night and Aiden woke at 6. And I’m supposed to feel like a bad mother for throwing a pop tart on the floor and letting them watch Madagascar three times in a row so I can survive the day by stealing an extra ten minutes of blissful sleep. Which won’t ever happen because Aiden isn’t POTTY TRAINED, and still poops his pants at the magic hour of FIVE in the AM. No I don’t care to hear about your sister in law’s pregnancy experience, your own horrible birthing process, or your moms sister’s anemic friend who also has Chiari.
But I’m good. Great. STELLAR.
This too shall pass. All is fair in love and pregnancy…and I DO know it could always get worse. Just do me a huge favor and spare me these last few weeks in the special category of the perpetually socially challenged.
Thank you.
{I know you have all had your own experiences. Share away…}
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