My attitude is a little un-cute

Being pregnant is so flippin' weird, and in many different ways. I'm not just talking about what's happening to my body which, by the way, is some crazy shit. For example, I have a weird ache where my right leg is attached to my torso and I'm convinced that in the night my leg actually fell off and little fairy-like beings reattached it before I woke up, and I'm still sore from that "procedure" even though the work was exceptionally flawless.

I'm not talking about the baby either, though it is pretty cool that he apparently has great taste in music and performed some sort of Snoopy-like happy dance this morning to a sensational bluesy guitar riff. He also dug the music from the movie, Juno (or maybe he loved the movie itself because it is a GREAT film), and kicked the whole way through. He also responds to the new Alicia Keys song, "No One."

I think what I actually mean is that people respond to me in very odd ways. For example, people want to touch me in places that don't normally get touched in public. Well, not in visible public anyway. They want me to perform odd experiments on myself like: Go in a dark closet and shine a light on your stomach. It'll make the baby squirm and that's funny. People rub my belly like one might rub the Buddha or a baldhead (for luck). They talk to my belly button. They comment about my breast size (mostly in favorable terms which is nice for a change). They tell me I look well, or that I'm cute pregnant (as opposed to all of those un-cute pregnant girls). They comment on my weight, on my clothes, my "glow". One lady made fun of the fact that I was eating a pop tart for breakfast, only it was a witty quip cloaked in a warning about pop tarts being bad for babies. I mean geez. Where was my stalk of breakfast broccoli?

Last night I was out having dinner with the Fougs. We wanted to share a dessert and we picked the ice cream cake. Sure, the cake had the word "Kahlua" in it, but I thought I would ask if it was actual Kahlua or simply Kahlua flavoring. I knew that if it did have any alcohol in it, it probably wouldn't have been much. So I decided I would ask, but before I could even point to the picture, the waitress leaned over me and said, "Oh no. That has alcohol in it and babies don't like alcohol." So I hastily (and somewhat self-consciously) pointed at the next picture and that's the dessert we got. The waitress then checked back to see if "the baby liked the dessert" we picked. I hope so, because it wasn't what we wanted. (Sorry Fougs.)

First of all, what the hell? How is what I consume or don't consume any of her business? At least the Pop-tart lady was someone I know. And secondly, I'm not drinking tequila shots or beer or wine or ANYTHING alcoholic, though my doctor actually told me to have a glass of wine every now and then to relieve some of my anxiety, a condition far worse for the baby than an occasional glass of wine. But people do. They butt-in. They offer advice when none is needed. And the worst part is you can hardly be upset with them because they mean well. They actually believe they are doing the best thing for you, or teaching you some sort of life lesson, or they want to somehow be a part of it for whatever Freudian reason.

This is hardly a new concept, and I do recognize that community child rearing involves many people being in one’s personal space. “It takes a village” and whatnot. But it’s still weird.