June 16, 2015 by Heather
When I was a few weeks away from having Parker, I wrote this post detailing some of the more annoying comments people had made in regards to my pregnant state. It’s no different this time around; in fact, the things I hear still force me to pause, convince myself not to flick them in the eyeball, smile, and churn out one of the memorized half-way nice responses because I am a civil human being and I know how to talk to people, unlike you, well-meaning stranger lady.
There is a new issue for people to comment on this time around that, for whatever reason, I had not expected them to have such an opinion about.
It’s not about my size, which gets its fair (or, perhaps, unfair) share of idiotic things said about it. I no longer accompany my response to those comments with a smile — I glare, because that’s about the nicest thing I can muster when it’s the 594th time that week I’ve been told I look like I’m about to pop, I look miserable, I look huge (give me a freaking break, people), he must be an enormous baby if there’s just one in there, I look way further along than I actually am, and that I better “shape up” real quick after this one so I have enough energy to handle it all.
These things are ridiculous, absurd, and uncalled for. The people who say them lack restraint, manners, and exposure to everyday miracles such as growing a human. I give them the benefit of the doubt, when what they really deserve is, for lack of a better phrase, my puffy, fat, middle finger.
I can handle the things said about me, about my size, about how I look.
What has really bothered me this second time around are the comments on the baby’s gender.
“Aw man, I bet you were wanting a girl weren’t you.”
“Looks like y’all will have to try again for a girl!”
“You need to have a girl — they’re the ones who come home to visit and take care of you.”
“Maybe the ultrasound was wrong!”
“Let’s keep those fingers crossed — maybe it will come out a girl!”
That last one was said to me at church this past Sunday (along with a comment on how big I look, bless you sister), and I replied the same way I do to all of them: “No way, give me a house full of boys!”
When we had our gender scan five thousand weeks ago, I had myself convinced that I was pregnant with a girl. Everything had been so different, I figured it must be. You could say I had even gotten my hopes up. I was having visions of lavender-painted walls, teaching her the ways of makeup, self-esteem, and other lady problems. I had pictured Parker gently playing with a baby sister, probably hoarding her dolls.
I saw those boy parts flash up on the screen and was so surprised — A) that it wasn’t a girl, and B) that I felt relieved and at peace.
Don’t get me wrong, I would love to have a girl. Many of my friends have girls and it gives me such joy watching them interact and lay beautiful mother-daughter foundations. Girls stuff is WAY cuter than boy stuff, and there is WAY more of it to pick from. I mean, heck, I possess an inordinate amount of knowledge on the most girly stuff out there. I’m wired to be a girl-mom, right? Based on the shock-and-awe I’ve seen and heard when I tell people it’s my second boy, you’d think I should consider going to some witch doctor to have them perform a ceremony to magically change the gender.
People mean well, I know that. Lots of people don’t do a great job of thinking before they speak, something I understand all too well. I guess all I’m saying is… Call me fat, call me huge, call me all the things. But please don’t insinuate that this beautiful blessing from God is not perfectly and exactly who he’s supposed to be, from his tiny head to his tiny toes, just like his big brother.
Happy Tuesday… four more weeks to go!