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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1. Thank you to all who entered my giveaway. I know I was like an hour late. I'm sure all of you were RUSHING BACK to see who won. (insert sarcasm HERE.) Those kids won't go down tonight!

I truly did this the old fashioned way so there was no biased selection. I'm completely paranoid to the point of OCD over NOT being biased since some of you I know, and some of you I do not. {It's funny, but I kind of wanted to pick someone I DON'T know. So to all you shy people out there who visit and DIDN'T enter since you don't know me... let that be a non biased point made. I was rootin for ya but also more than happy for whoever!}

I literally wadded up pieces of paper and then let Aiden and Emerson each choose one. They thought it was the best game ever, except Emerson got mad when I tried to confiscate hers. Thank you all for reading. You are all winners in my eyes...blah blah blah...Seriously though, I HATED to only pick two! Maybe next time! Keep entering, cause I'll keep having them giveaways...

On to the good stuff...

a. Chosen by Aiden: Comment no. 56:
Girl: This might just inspire my girls whole bathroom decor. One of the rooms I haven't gotten to yet.
06.1.2009 | Dana

b. Chosen by Emerson: Comment no. 2: Boy. Okay, I love the "boy" painting too!
05.28.2009 | Hilary

Congrats, gals! These should be out to you next week, so get to it and send me your shipping addresses!
__________

On to an overdue blog...

2.
It was Tuesday afternoon when I received the first text message. I glanced at my phone and didn't recognize the number. Or the humor, for that matter. {Enter crude joke number one.} Do I really have to preface this by establishing the fact that I DO have a sense of humor? This text was tastelessly racist.

It was-I-think-people-might-try-to-pipe-bomb-my-house if-I-repeat-it, I'm-surprised-there-are-white-trash-rednecks out there who-still-act-like-this, don't-spread-the-hatred-over-the-top-kinda-text.

I stared at it, a bit puzzled, then showed it to Jamin who was standing nearby. I kind of wondered if it was one of our teenagers. "Busted," I thought. But Jamin didn't recognize the number and simply told me to ignore it. {My deepest apologies to the unjustly accused.}

It was a mere five minutes later when the second message came through. This one was a lame sex/bar joke. Unoriginal. Overused. Do people even tell jokes anymore? I mean, come up with your own humor. At this point I decided to 'take action.'

"You have the wrong number," I replied. I wanted to say much more, but I left it at that, as I was now apparently in the merciless hands of bad joke forwarders everywhere.

Ten seconds later, the phone rang. A call from the same number.

Jamin is meaner than me (when it comes to informative, I-think-you're-socially-retarded-situations.) I gladly handed the phone to him.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?" came a smoker's voice from the other end. An old lady smoker's voice. And I had already chalked it up to some random kid based on texting maturity levels...

"This is Jamin. Who is this?"

"Wendy." At this point, I'm picturing the bleached blond raisin lady via "There's Something About Mary" Sitting in a local trailer park, stroking her pit bull mix, whilst fiddling with her latest can of beer. Her voice said it all.

"Well, Wendy, maybe you shouldn't be sending perverted jokes to people you don't know."

OH SNAP. Wendy had just been text-shamed.

"Sorry." she replied, and at that, Jamin smugly ended the call.

Riddle me this: If you accidentally sent a crude joke to someone would you then have the gusto to call them? I'm assuming this was a case of mistaken identity. No gusto. Sheer idiocy. She probably thought Lurleen two trailers down was pulling a fast one on her. And if she had any sense about her, subsequently felt immensely stupid.

3.
Later that afternoon, we ventured to a local farmer's market at the latest hot spot in Montgomery: Hampstead. (Their logo is very Harry Potterish, btw.)

They had promised bouncy fun for the kids, and a chance to take a gander at their new homes. My curiosity peaked, I should have known better than to go. Ashley=officially in LOVE. Thanks, overpriced european inspired Sea Side revamps.

I stepped into Hampstead and felt myself leaving Montgomery behind. A key winning point, for me. I think Jamin felt the same way. Local organic farm, lake, pool, playgrounds, cobblestone streets... need I go on? I'm such a sucker for that overly priced sophisticatedly mass produced small town snobbery feel...and decorating the dream home that comes with it...(with an unlimited budget, of course)

Aren't we all?

It was after touring that I proclaimed we are putting our home on the market YESTERDAY. I had a moment of temporary amnesia in the economy status/real estate lust department. We then proceeded to the farmers market. It was after a few minutes that I looked around and realized we were probably a bit out of our league.

{PLEASE NOTE: I am going to offend some in the next few statements, so if I do, remember I probably won't respond to your hate mail, but perhaps you should rethink your wardrobes.}

There were five year old boys frolicking in smocked. Maybe they weren't frolicking. But the smocked certainly made it seem as if frolicking was the order of the day. I realize there are many opinions on this style statement in the south, and mine is fairly flexible: after the age of two, with BOYS, you're pushing it. If you disagree with me, please take note this was a TUESDAY and they were PLAYING in the GRASS. Props to you if you have the money to blow on outfits. Smack you in the face if you try too hard to LOOK like you have money to blow on outfits to show up at events like farmer's markets all to let your children acquire grass stains on something you can barely spit pennies you so desperately wish to acquire. Shame.

Taking my observance further, I realized all the fathers looked a bit borderline in the husbandry department. Tightwads, obsessively typing away on their blackberries, decked in their lounging best: tucked polos and khakis. Slightly balding. (They all had the same stress induced hairline. Think: invasion of the body snatchers.) I've decided they were all obsessively crunching numbers with their faces contorted into awkward wrinkles, figuring out how to keep up with the Joneses. (And their not-so-little boy's smocked outfits that their wives bought on the D.L.)

"Jamin," I said in a low voice, grabbing his arm, "I'm not so sure these are our 'kind' of people."
{Read: I totally hate it when people try too hard, and I suddenly felt like a Lurleen.}

"Well of course not," He replied. matter of factly, as if he had already taken note and established his own take on it all. "These people are of the we-only-have-one-child, I'm-a-lawyer, and my-wife-has-time-to-dress-me-variety."

He then continued, as I took note of his infinite wisdom, listening intently.

"We're the we-don't-know-how-to-use-birth-control so-now-we're-completely-overwhelmed, I-dress-myself-variety."

I nearly fell into fits of laughter as we headed back to the Quest, parked proudly next to a Mercedes. Jamin's point completely reinforced as we passed a couple strolling in heels, and matching bottled beer Koozies. I think they were monogrammed. They were both coordinating in various shades of Navy. I'm pretty sure she was wearing anchors for earrings. Symbolic of their latest yacht purchase.

Sign me up. Our children won't attend college, but our home will be one of the largest and most gorgeous in all of AMERICA. Isn't that what life is all about?

Guess I should get to work on my first book if I want to supplement that income...
Brushing elbows with two spectrums of society in one day can prove to be quite taxing.

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