Geez Pal, Read the Room.

It is said that women bask in the glow of pregnancy.  Many do not. I’m not a glower, but I did find it fascinating to live inside a science experiment for nine months.  Twice.

Everything was out of control.  My belly itched incessantly. My feet grew a full size. I sported cleavage for the first and last time in my life. Doctors, nurses, family members and total strangers felt free to lay their hands on me and make pronouncements about gender and due dates and names to avoid.

Toward the end of my first pregnancy, an old friend came to town.  He was a doctor who primarily worked for sports teams in South Carolina.

We decided to go out for dinner and ended up at an Italian restaurant. I waddled to the table and plopped gratefully into my chair.  When the waitress arrived, she took one look at me and sweetly asked when I was due.

After she took our order, our conversation took an unfortunate turn. The topic of weight gain during pregnancy was suddenly on the menu.  My friend posited that the ideal weight a woman should gain during pregnancy is about fifteen pounds. 

“Fifteen pounds?” I stammered. “Fifteen pounds? Does that include the baby?”

He nodded knowingly. My extra thirty pounds and I nearly decked him. 

Geez, pal, read the room.

I was pregnant at a time when women dressed in empire-waisted pup tents after the first trimester.  These tents were equipped with cloth ties to allow for expansion--or perhaps a rain fly.   It makes me happy now to see women proudly wrap their bounteous bellies in color and comfort for all to see.

Glow or no glow, the last trimester of any pregnancy is tough.  We are leaking and aching and expanding at an alarming rate, and every day feels like Fat Tuesday. Nobody—and by that I mean Nobody—should be allowed to discuss our weight.