Other retorts I should have used, but that have come to me too late:

* “Well, I’m pregnant – what’s your excuse?” – To the size-related commenters, always coming from older men/women who haven’t missed a meal in, oh, decades.

* “I really don’t like hearing about your vagina” – To the middle-aged women who overshare their delivery stories. (I’m okay with hearing about some stories – it’s when they get graphic that I shudder internally, especially when it’s from people I barely know who haven’t birthed since the 50′s and have no idea that their stories are frightening the bejesus out of me. And also, I don’t want to walk around all day at work knowing that much information about your bottom system.  Thanks.)

* “No, it’s not twins – I’ve had seven ultrasounds and would know by now.  Yes, I’m sure.  No, seriously – IT’S NOT FUCKING TWINS you fuckface!” -  Because I’ve actually had to repeat myself a few times to some people who ask if I’m having twins…and then continue to ask – “Are you sure there’s only one?  Really?  Your doctor checked?”

* “I know people didn’t breastfeed when you were pregnant, 35 years ago.  Please shut up about why you think I should preserve my figure and not breastfeed, because you didn’t do it and it looks like you have gnarled, tree root boobs anyway.  Lot of good that did you.”  – This to the woman who cornered me in the bathroom and went off on a boob tangent for several minutes, almost like she was justifying her decision that she made 20 years ago.

I know at the heart of the matter lies the fact that most people just want to reach out and find some way to connect, and maybe seeing a pregnant woman reminds them of those good ol’ days, when they were expecting their first baby.   But for God’s sake, I wish they’d think first, speak later.

*FUPA = Fat Upper P*ssy Area

FUPA in full effect

Thank you for pooping on the kitchen floor.  Because the house wasn’t fragrant enough, you beast.  I understand you’re going through some issues right now.  The new baby furniture is upsetting you, and you keep growling at that sunbeam on the wall.  And you seem to think the stroller is going to eat you.  But really…I thought we were beyond passive-aggressive dumps.

Sincerely,
Your mama

I’d heard all the rumors, and know all the baby books say it happens, but nothing prepared me for the giant bitch slap of crazy pregnancy hormones.  See, I’ve always been what my brother teasingly refers to as, “sensitive” – as in, “Yeah, we worried about telling you that Harley got eaten by a coyote…because you’re the emotionally fragile one.”   Hmmm…thanks?

*Harley Brown, sassy overweight family Pomeranian who was seized cruelly in the night by a rogue coyote last month.

I like to think that I keep my highs and lows in check thanks to exercise and Zoloft, but even the most vigilant can get caught up in cloud of depression, especially if you’ve dealt with it for many years.  I have a tumultuous hormonal history (I believe this comes from my mother’s side of the family…many depressed, pale, drinking Irish folk on that side and most of them are on some sort of anti-depressant/anti-anxiety combo mix) and have been dealing with this for years.  One week you’re doing great; taking your meds and going on about your business, the next you could be curled up in a ball sobbing under a black cloud of despair, triggered because there’s no more cheese left in the fridge and isn’t it so sad that there are people who can’t even afford cheese, and why are you crying anyway?!  Or  you can’t listen to your R&B shuffle on iPod without crying, because you keep thinking of poor Luther Vandross and how lonely he must have felt when he died, and it is so upsetting to think about him being sad, lonely and polishing off buckets of KFC in one sitting, and what if that happens to you one day?  See, there I go, getting all worked up.

So, fast forward to me getting knocked up.  The hormones have only added to an already touchy situation.  Anything death-related gets me so upset.  A few months ago I was riding MAX, and sitting directly across from me was a very large older black gentleman.  He was huge.  His rolls had rolls.  And I sat there, and thought about my Dad, and how he takes blood pressure medication and cholesterol medication but still smokes menthol cigs, and we’ve tried to get him to stop, because black men are prone to heart disease!   Dad is by no means overweight, but one day he could keel over from heart issues, and what if he died before he got a chance to meet his newest grandbaby?  As I sat there rolling past Pioneer Square, and the fragrant street children got on the train, and this 400 pound man sat facing me, my eyes started tearing up.  By the time I’d reached my exit and walked down to meet Joe I was in full-on sobbing mode and all I could choke out in shuddering cries was, “This man!  Buh-buh-black!  [sob, gasp, snort] Was really huge!  [snot and tears rolling down my cheeks] What if  Dad dies?!  And what if our baby never gets to meet him?”    Poor Joe just held me and said it would be fine.

I’ve had a lot of those kinds of moments.  I’ve learned to stay away from any TLC shows and keep my browsing of local news stations (always the most depressing!) to a minimum.   Today I’m feeling a little blue; not sure why but writing about it makes me feel better.  Sigh.  I’m blaming it on the hormones.

*Side note – apparently this is what’s referred to as the “nesting” stage – the inexplicable desire to scrub and clean any and all things right before baby makes their appearance.  The only problem is, I have no energy to do the above chores.

I swore to myself this would never happen (oh blissful, ignorant pre-pregnancy me!  Silly girl with her crazy thoughts!) but I have full-on Let.Myself.GO.  I barely have the energy to shave anymore (and I’m talking legs, don’t even get me started on nethers, I’m like Helen Keller down there – just flying blind!) let alone clean anything.  I also wanted to be a hot, pregnant mom before I got pregnant, and sadly I feel this is not the case.  Is it vain and selfish to admit this?  Yes, probably.  I should blame US Weekly for putting all those pictures of hot celebrity moms in their magazines.  I thought I could be Super Pregnant Woman, but this little girl has given me a run for my money, healthwise, and I’m finding that I have to save energy for the important things.

So, to make a long story short, I am trying to make checking in on the blog one of the Important Things, as I feel it will be good for my sanity and well-being.  Also, I have SO much more to share…we’ve only just begun, bitches!

-Peed and shat multiple times on our hardwood floors and carpet, making our downstairs smell like a Shell station bathroom

-Pulled the stuffing out of our loveseat

-Destroyed the loveseat cover that we bought to disguise the aforementioned abuse

-Chewed through the wiring on the automatic garage door

-Eaten four pairs of shoes, a jacket, a baseball mitt, golf shoes, countless socks,  several pairs of panties (not that big a deal; just an excuse to buy more but nonetheless, still disturbing to walk upstairs and see him sprawled like a beast with an innocent pink ribbon hanging from his mouth)

-Gnawed through the carpeting and down to the floorboards on three of our stairs

-Let’s see, what else…made me cry, throw things and threaten to sell him to Gypsies or at least put an ad on Craigslist out of sheer frustration

This list could go on and on, but I’ll spare the details…for now.  Let this be a reminder to those people who decide that gee whiz, it’d be awfully fun to get a large breed of dog right after you get married, you know – for practice on raising kids – and to also think that the only thing you’d need to get you through is a copy of “Bulldogs for Dummies” from the local PetCo and a heart of gold.  Ha!