THE DOMESTIC
Stop telling me how huge I am
As women, we are unfortunately used to people commenting on our appearance. When pregnant, however, the analysis of our bodies hits a peak, and you may find that people actually begin to greet you with an update on how massive you’re looking.
It’s an odd approach for the general public to take, as, let’s face it, at no other time are we so full of hormones. Why goad us when we’re already so volatile? And likely to outweigh pretty much everyone in the vicinity.
“Oh my god, you’re huge!” says every goddamn person I meet when I’m gestating. If they’re not touching the bump, then they are most definitely commenting on the bump. Do they really think I need to be informed of my immenseness? At nine months pregnant, I weighed about 85 stone and was walking like an 85-year-old. I knew I was huge. This was not news to me; I was, after all, the one lugging my giant body around.
It’s not like these were infrequent occurrences, either; I was getting charming updates on a weekly basis.
At the end of my first pregnancy, I was spied eating lunch by my dentist, who seized the opportunity to shout across the cafe, “I see you’re really taking that ‘eating for two’ thing to heart”. I was eating a sandwich. At lunchtime. This would by no means count as outlandish eating, especially by my standards of greed.
On another day, a heavily pregnant woman questioned me repeatedly about whether or not I was “sure” I wasn’t having twins. “It’s a First World country,” I felt like exploding, “Holles Street is on the ball. I know how many babies are in there.” To move the conversation along, I politely asked this lady about her own bump, but couldn’t shake the feeling that her main point in quizzing me was to highlight just how well she was “doing” pregnancy-wise, compared to me.
So thanks, random stranger, for reminding me that I was not “glowing” or “neat” or “barely showing” or whatever bullshit state of perfection pregnant people are supposed to be aspiring to.
“Comparison is the thief of joy” is a phrase I’d call up whenever some total tool felt the need to tell how they were “all bump” or “didn’t show until eight months”.
It’s a bit like an extreme sport, insulting pregnant women. They are already off their tits on hormones; if a pregnant person went on a homicidal rampage, I don’t think I’d bat an eyelid. Someone probably told her, “You’re about ready to pop,” when she was five months along — what did they expect?
Unsurprisingly, my own mother enjoyed keeping up with passing commentary on my expanding body. “Not,” she’d offer, with visible disdain, “one of your nicer outfits,” indicating whatever stretchy jersey sheath I’d managed to pull on. She’s lucky I didn’t set her on fire.
I took comfort instead in this tasty fish pie.