Dear Psychic Due Date Predictors:
It is me! The woman who looks like she is ready to give birth at any moment. I have an apology for you.
When you, Post Office Guy, announced to all the patrons of our local post office that I looked like I was ready to be a mom soon, I had 4 more months to go. Honestly, at that point in time, I wasn’t mad at you. I had assumed that you were friendly, bored, and bonkers. More importantly, I was so excited that I looked pregnant to strangers and not just fat! But then your fellow due date prediction pals started their assault…
Lady at Target: Yes, we were due the same month and you barely had a bump, but that did not mean I was ready to rush off to Labor and Delivery just yet. OK, so you didn’t actually say anything mean to me, or suggest I rush to the hospital, but you didn’t have to. Your tiny adorable bump did all the talking for you.
Neighborhood Porch Guy: In your defense, I was having really bad Braxton Hicks contractions outside of your house during my walk. Thank you for offering to drive me home, to avoid a birth in front of your house, but I still had three months to go! Sheesh! And for the record, I finished my walk. Although my docs recommend that I cut back on the distance.
Cooking Class Man: Dude, what is up? I’m here to wrap food in paper hearts. Your comment about how it must be “any day now” was not appreciated. I don’t care if your wife had five daughters, making you some sort of psychic pregnancy professional. And your “It is the stripes on your dress” excuse did not help… Stripes don’t add *months* to a pregnancy! Apparently, I am still mad at you!
All ready for doc appointment. I took a picture because I can’t trust the mirror.
So yeah, I got a bit self-conscious thanks to you people. And as Yoda says, “Self-consciousness leads to self-loathing, self-loathing leads to defensive anger aimed towards strangers (and tiny unassuming bumps) who can’t seem to resist foot-in-the-mouth opportunities.” So I got angry with you all. (And Yoda, a fan of anger, is not.) You probably didn’t even notice my rage. To your faces, I sheepishly apologized for being so large as to make you choke on your own toe-jam. Then, in the comfort of my safe-zone (Patrick), I unleashed furious rants directed towards each of you. My rants also make Patrick laugh, so everyone wins!
Then I went to my doc appointment last week. Weight was on target, my BP was nice and low, and baby’s heartbeat sounded like a rave beat on E. Remember raves? Me neither. All was going well until the doc measured my belly not once, but twice. Huh? Turns out I’m measuring 4 weeks ahead. In fact, according to the metric system, my belly resembles a boulder more than a bump.
So my apologies to you due-date predicting, toe-jam sucking strangers. Sorry for angrily talking about you behind your back. I said cutting things like “What does he know? Has he ever seen a pregnant person before? Should I go into hiding (back to self-consciousness)? They are all mean-butts!” (The baby can not only hear, but can distinguish our voices now, so I don’t want to be known as the pirate-tongued, mean, lady-one just yet.)
You were all right; I do look big. Just stop telling me about it? OK? Thanks! There, now that we made up, you can touch my belly. It is good luck!
PS. I can’t get my shoes on!
“No, Patrick, don’t help me, take a picture.” No seriously, that is what I said to him.
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