a whale of a wife

I was aware, entering into this whole pregnancy/baby-having process, that people do the darndest things around expecting women. "Just wait," I heard, "the minute you start showing, strangers will put their hands all over you. You won't believe it. It will be like your belly is a magic lamp, and the general population is Aladdin. Like your baby bump is a miniature horse in the petting zoo that is your body, and the citizens of the world are a four-year-old-child. Like your unborn child within is that weird clay head of Lionel Richie in the video for 'Hello,' and America is that hot blind sculptress..." You get the idea.

So I was prepared for this. Bring it on, people of earth!

As it turns out, at least in my experience, people have cottoned on to the idea that in general manhandling ladies is not appropriate, and therefore, not touching pregnant women we do not know has become standard practice. Much more common, and much less expected was the commentary.

I was an extremely big pregnant lady. I started showing early, and there was no guess work involved (is she?). Around six months, people assumed the end was nigh -- much nigh-er than it actually was. A typical conversation went like this:

Stranger: "Oh wow! You're pregnant. How far along are you?"
Me: "Six months."
Stranger: (shock apparent) "Six months?!? You're REALLY big."
Me: "I guess so."
Stranger: "No, I mean REALLY. When I (or my sister/wife/friend, etc.) was pregnant, I didn't look that big until the very end.
Me: ......
Stranger: "You sure you've just got one in there?"

I am a public services librarian which means I talk to people all day long. You can imagine how many times I had this conversation. By and large, I was able to keep a sense of humor about it. "Oh, people," I would think, shaking my inner head bemusedly. "You're so inappropriate." Of course, there were days when I wasn't able. Days when my husband stopped looking at me, when I'd just heard it too many times, or when the word "whale" or the like entered into play, usually coupled with the times that my back and feet hurt so bad I could hardly move, but those times were rare. This is because at the same time, a parallel occurrence was taking place.

Strangers were telling me I was beautiful and bringing me treats. People would make a point of stopping by my desk to tell me I was radiant, stylish, and on one very exciting day, to bring me brownies because "mamas shouldn't have to wait for brownies." I loved the smiles and the happy stories people wanted to tell me about how much fun motherhood is, and how much I was going to love it. My experience became a shared experience, and I felt privileged to be a part of this new collective. In this way, I loved being pregnant.

It's weird now, no longer being pregnant. When my baby is with me, people behave strangely in a whole new way (e.g. the other day as my husband and I were walking down the street with the baby in his carrier, a complete stranger passed us, noted the carrier - which was mostly covered, I might add - then power-walked backwards, craning her neck to see inside, then clapped my husband on the arm, stating "Good job."), but more on that later. When my son is not with me, it's like nothing ever happened. I am no longer note-worthy, just another face in the crowd.

It's not that I need the attention. Really! It's that this enormous, life-changing thing transpired. I'm forever altered now, both physically and mentally, but without my baby or my belly, you'd never know it. That's not a bad thing, it's just strange. For months, I carried my impending future in front of me (looking, apparently, as if my impending future was twins), literally wearing it for the world to see. Now it's just me again, and though I'm grateful for the autonomity, I have to admit that I miss the brownies.