I chickened out on Monday. I canceled my meeting to tell my boss about my bun. Chuck and my friends assured me I didn’t look pregnant yet—just fat—so I figured I’d wait a little longer. Then, Wednesday, Chuck said, “Wow, you’re really showing.”
“Which is it? Am I fat or pregnant?” I barked.
So in I went this morning to tell her.
She took the news well, much better than I’d anticipated. I finally could let my bump hang free and stop walking backwards. I was about to jump on the chair and sing "The hills are alive" when she asked the question I’ve been hearing a lot lately: “Was this planned?”
The question stops me every time. Was this what? You want to know whether Chuck and I knowingly boinked with or without using protection? Why?
It’s this pregnancy’s question du jour—and people aren’t subtle about asking. My cousin’s congratulatory email actually went like this: “Yipee! I’m assuming this was planned?”
Assume away, bitch.
I mean, really.
I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out the motives of these nosy people. Maybe they see life as one big Lifetime movie? Maybe if I say, “No, the baby wasn’t planned,” they enjoy imagining that Chuck and I were in the throes of passion and that Chuck suddenly screamed, “Dear God, no! Your Nuva Ring just bounced off the chandelier! What will we do if we have to bring another child into this stable, loving home? How could this have happened to us, a happily married monogamous couple?”
Then they imagine Chuck being really mean to me while I bake pies at a dusty old diner and mac on my married gynecologist.
Oh wait, that was Waitress.
I was about to dedicate more time tonight to my psychological investigation (there’s nothing on TV and what else is there to do in Mulletville on a humid Thursday night) but a foul, rancid smell has been distracting me. A rodent—or one of Chuck’s shoes—has died behind an upstairs wall. No matter what I spray or what ridiculous contraption I plug into the wall to spread its flowery, morning fresh douchy goodness, the smell won’t go away.
It's downright foul.
But. I’d rather have people sniff me and ask why I smell like decomposing mouse than the Dreaded Question. That’s how much I hate it.
What about you? What pregnancy question do you/did you hate with a passion? If you don't have children, what question do you hate, in general?
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.