Yesterday the unthinkable happened.
I was standing around minding my own business and a woman that I see every few months came up to me and said, “Oh my God, Marinka, are you–” and then where her voice trailed off, she made the international sign near her abdomen for pregnancy. Or maybe watermelon.
I’ve heard of things like this, but I always thought it was an urban myth.
That people in 2011 America do not really ask other people if they are pregnant.
Because it is rude. And awkward. And makes the woman you asked feel homicidal.
But not me.
I decided to take advantage of this situation and go on immediate bed rest. For my phantom baby’s sake.
I came home and told Mama about what happened, expecting a warm embrace and some loving maternal words of reassurance. And perhaps some ice cream, because my fake baby needs calcium.
Apparently, the pseudo-pregnancy hormones clouded my judgment in telling Mama.
“I must say, woman is brave,” she started looking at my watermelon, I mean, baby, bump.
“Brave?” I asked, willing to learn.
“I’m glad someone had a guts to tell you,” she went on. “And you keep wearing the clothes that..that..” she was searching for a word. Of maternal love and adoration, I’m sure.
“You mean I wear clothes that are unflattering?”
“Unflattering goes without the saying,” she waved her hand to dismiss that idea, “you wear clothes that let you eat more.”
“What does that even mean?” I asked. I mean I certainly don’t wear sweatpants with an adjustable waistband.
“You wear dress that is not tight. So when you eat a lot it doesn’t rip.”
“You want me to wear clothes that will tear if I have too much food? Maybe something that will explode if I have an extra cookie?”
“Did she say how many months you looked?”
“The brave woman, did she ask how the pregnant are you?”
“Because I think a good four months.”
“Yes. Not a new pregnancy.”
I may be on bed rest longer than anticipated.
Go read this. You will thank me. And my fetus.