Apparently I’ve passed the 12 week grace period where people either didn’t know I was pregnant or they didn’t ask because they knew that I had experienced a couple of early miscarriages. But all of a sudden, it’s like a light went off on my forehead and everyone seems to think it’s time to bless me with their amazing insights regarding pregnancy.
Quite frankly, I can deal with the attempts at belly rubbing or due date asking or even the “My, are you carrying twins?” questions. That’s old hat and considering I’m now dealing with a toddler and 2nd trimester exhaustion (when does it become the bliss everyone says?), I just bat them away with my purse like a crotchety old lady.
I can even handle the “good luck to you with 2 under 3” comments. You know, those misguided and entirely unnecessary “Enjoy it while you can because you’re never going to sleep” or “Be careful what you wish for because chances are #2 is going to be a hellion” remarks that people feel obligated to bestow on you because they are lacking something in their life (like common sense and decency). Honestly, I’d rather them just pat my belly and ask me how much weight I’ve gained then have to endure one more person telling me how hard it’s going to be.
I get that. TWO KIDS. It’s hard. Thanks for adding to my already high anxiety level with your thoughtful words.
But clearly, the worst of it all has to be listening to my relatives tell me that they don’t want to know the gender of our child. Take my mother, for example. “I don’t want to know because if you lose this one I don’t want to know if it was a boy or girl.”
NICE. (And you thought it was just my in-laws that were wacky).
My in-laws are the same way. Because it’s their baby and so they get to decide whether you find out or not. Right.
Last time, we didn’t find out and so all the old folks who live in the green camp, you know the “there’s-only-a-few-surprises-in-life” camp, loved us. But this time, after having two miscarriages, dealing with a huge move and a possibly stressful living situation, I want to know. And I will wear my gender specific shirt at my gender specific shower with great pride, regardless of who wants or doesn't want to know.
However, there is a little problem.
We couldn’t see jackshit on the ultrasound. Plus, in true Mississippi/Air Force fashion, the tech and the radiologist can’t tell you, so unless I get another u/s at my doctor’s office (which won’t be covered by insurance), I won’t know.
But you have to admit, it is a pretty cute leg.
And just in case you're wondering, I have considered telling everyone it's a penis. So what if it has a knee joint? Most people just nod when you show them these things anyway.