When you’re pregnant, there are two camps of strangers that come out of the woodwork to give you their unsolicited commentary about your pregnancy. The first group caters to you in a kind, positive, nonintrusive way. These people hold open doors, smile politely but silently at your baby belly, and pick up your keys for you when they fall out of your purse and under your car. If they speak to you at all, their chit chat is sweet and good-natured, asking generic questions about due dates, gender, and how you’re generally feeling. I love these people.
Then there’s camp #2: the Unintentional Assholes.
Otherwise known as UAs, these people are snarky, offensive, nosey, and generally obnoxious. Perhaps they think that they’re well-meaning, but they suck. They often think they’re funny or witty, when in fact they’re rude and insensitive. If you’re one of these people, don’t stop me at Trader Joe’s and talk to me anymore. I hate you.
Once, for a solid week, a new UA approached me every day while I was out and about, minding my own business, and insisted that I must be having a boy because of the way I am carrying. When I politely informed all of these UAs that the twenty ultrasounds that I had had over the last several months had all definitively told us it’s a girl, I was met with comments like “you should get another doctor” or “don’t paint the nursery just yet.” Really? Your five-second visual analysis of my belly at the gas station overrides my Princeton-educated OB/GYN and her top-notch ultrasound equipment? Go screw yourself. The pink nursery is a done deal.
At least, that’s what I say in my head. I’m not actually the kind of belligerent, hormonal pregnant lady that walks around telling people to go screw themselves, even to UAs that totally deserve it. But I am the kind of person that writes an open letter to UAs on a blog as a public service to the Internet community. This way, you can assess if you are one of them and modify your behavior around pregnant women accordingly.
So, to the elderly crone hunched over in a wheelchair sucking oxygen who screamed across a crowded museum that I should get to the hospital immediately, I ask, “do you want a ride?”
To the morbidly obese teenage boy who insisted that I must be having twins because I’m so big, I say, “maybe…are you also having twins?”
To the self-righteous Bible beater who caught me on a day when my hands were too swollen for my wedding ring and clucked that I should be more careful next time, I say, “Regardless of my marital status, I’m an adult and my sex life is none of yourbusiness. But I can tell yours needs improvement if you’re obsessing over that of a complete stranger.”
To the waitress who refused to seat me in a booth because she decided that I wouldn’t fit (P.S. I did, with plenty of room to spare), I say…I actually I have nothing to say to you. My husband tipped you a buck because you’re an insensitive bitch.
To the same waitress who lectured me about the construction on the floor on my way to the bathroom because she had also decided that I’m so huge I couldn’t possibly see said floor, I say, “Thanks for your two cents. Enjoy your buck.”
And to the newly pregnant woman at the doctor’s office who snarked to her husband that I must be ready to deliver any minute, and to the husband who snarked back that at least I’m in the right place for it, I say, “You should know better, and I can’t wait ’til you get to be nine months pregnant and all the UAs come out and assault your emotions.”
The moral: If you don’t have anything nice to say to pregnant women, back off. Believe it or not, we have mirrors, and we know we’re big. We also have doctors, and they know what’s up with our babies. You’re not as funny as you think you are, and since you’re not my doctor or my mom, you really have no idea what you’re talking about nor do you have any right to tell me what to do.
More succinctly, go screw yourself.