I am halfway: through a bag of dark chocolate covered blueberries, and through the pregnancy. I made it to 20 weeks. And yes, 40 weeks is the normal length of a pregnancy. Furthermore, if there are 4 weeks in a month that equals 10 months. Not 9. TEN. If someone could explain to me how this crazy 9-months rumor got started (outside of the aforementioned grandparent-to-be conspiracy) I might feel better about the gross domestic I.Q.
I have made it into my fifth month of pregnancy, but not without breaking the cardinal rule of being a pregnant lady. Are you surprised? I’m not. Evidently allowing your eggs to commingle with the sperms is the equivalent of signing a pact: should you find your belly full with child you shall never betray the rest of womanhood by admitting that pregnancy sucks, and thenceforth when anyone asks you if you enjoy being pregnant, you shall respond with an enthusiastic “Yes!” while adding hyperbolic statements of adoration of round-bellyness and the like. You shall also allow complete strangers to touch your belly at any time, with or without warning. And you agree to smile when friends are polite enough to cup their hands and yell at your belly in lieu of said pawing. It has to be a pact, because there are evidently scores of women in our midst who “luuuuvvv being pregnant.”
While I am okay with the second half of the commingling agreement (the yelling and touching last but a moment), over the weekend not only did I admit that being pregnant kinda blows (oh hai – no vodka or cigarettes, and a belly with it’s own gravitational pull), but I stayed out too late. Well, out too late according to a couple of drunk ladies who probably were out too late a bottle of Zanax and a gallon of wine prior to making their groundbreaking observations. After stifling a Cartman-esque, “You don’t know me,” I politely asked them their names, and told them how lovely it was to meet them…
Yes, I am weeks away from turning 30, and about 5 months away from having a child in my charge, so of course it follows that I was reprimanded for being out too late at approximately 11:30 pm. Worst.mother.ever. Well, especially when coupled with the 4 ounces of wine that my doctor said it was alright to have daily, but that I shouldn’t be sipping according to the non-medically trained folks that leered at the glass in my hand. You know how you always wondered why your mom gets knocked under the table after drinking one amaretto sour? I so am not looking forward to that, but am so understanding how the crap that could happen.
Don’t worry, I have a feeling Baby Monkey Meiners likes whiskey, and I really don’t care for the stuff, so we are probably good at least until she decides to make her Springtime debut, and after The Mister ‘cuts the extension cord.’ But after that I am not responsible for any drunken Jameson binges she may partake in.
