Week 20: Observations

I had started a post earlier this week about the being pregnant, and had blathered on about the shit long enough that I had bored myself. I have, however, begun week 20.  Today marks the official halfway point of this forced mar. . .er. . .journey. It seems that it would . . . odd. . . to say nothing.  Therefore, here follows a  brief list of

Observations On Being Pregnant

1.  People Are Nosy Fuckers.

Without question my least favorite question from acquaintances and co-workers is “So, are you going to breastfeed?”  Motherfucker, that is not your business.  My mother hasn’t even asked me that question.   I always want to answer, “I dunno.  What do you intend to do with YOUR boobs in 4 months?”

I get that in most cases this is merely a throwaway, small-talk question meant to express interest in the clearly significant something that is happening in my life.  However, there is always the very real possibility that the person in question is looking for an opportunity to judge you or debate with you, and who the hell needs that noise?  Frankly, I don’t care to guess, and it doesn’t matter anyway.  I don’t much want to talk about my tits at the office.

Pro-tip:  The only people who are allowed to ask that question are people who are close enough to have seen your boobs in the most recent twelvemonth.  If I wouldn’t share a changing room with you, then I wouldn’t care to talk with you about my intentions for my bosom.

2.   The Internet Is Full of Crazies

I have largely avoided resorting to the web for information or conversation because it as full of lunatics who use lots of capital letters, exclamation marks, silly and childish euphemisms, and tend to spell this condition “pregnate.”  The one time I wandered onto a message board I was confronted by the panicked ramblings of a woman who had eaten a Caesar salad that may or may not have contained a raw egg.  Considering that she had already eaten the salad, it seemed that absent symptoms, she might just chalk it up to a lesson learned and attempt to put it out of her mind.

“Put it out of your mind,” is not advice you will hear much the internet.  Because I am a sensible person who also happens to be in a family way, I find it is best for all concerned if I these people altogether.

3.  Not Everything Will Kill Your Baby

But damn.  People–and not just exclamation-point addled internet message board loons–will try to convince you of such.  Open a book, or read an article in a magazine or online, and you are guaranteed to find a 101 ways to make sure your kid is born without a fucking head.  The list of things to avoid is absolutely endless.

I accept that there are certain things that are to be avoided or moderated while pregnant.  I have stopped drinking.  I have back on caffeine–in my first trimester I was consuming even less.  I am no longer storing my shellfish in the cat’s litter box.  I have, I assure, you made changes.

However, if I have to read one more time how I should avoid soft cheeses I am going to cut a bitch.  It’s nigh unto goddamn impossible to get unpasteurized soft cheese ’round these parts, so I’m not going to worry about it other than by continuing my longstanding practice of not buying my cheeses from the trunk of anyone’s car.  Same with the goddamn lunch meat fatwa.  I don’t eat lunch meat anyway, what with the not eating meat, but I doubt that some woman’s turkey sandwich is going to kill anyone, provided of course that she doesn’t buy her turkey at Satan’s own deli counter.

Pro-tip: Avoid gross and rotting shit.  All. The. Time. If you ate gross and rotting shit before you were pregnant, now is a good time to moderate that habit.

I feel quite confident that the rest of the world does not greet the news of pregnancy with food terror and joyless abstention.  I think there is a likely correlation between a more normal attitude of accepting pregnancy as a physical state–rather than a barely managed crisis–and the fact that about 1/3 of women in the United States wind up cut open so that our babies can be extracted.

The problem, in other words?  We’re fucking nuts.

Perhaps I’m less risk adverse than others, perhaps I’m unduly cavalier thanks  to the relative ease of my pregnancy.  Fine.  I can accept that, but in return I must ask that you keep your crazy on the d-l for me, mmm’kay?