There are many reasons, I’m sure, that people are generally very kind to visibly pregnant women. People without children, I think, make concessions for someone who appears to be in obvious physical discomfort. People with children, on the other hand, accommodate pregnant women out of pity or compassion—they know what’s coming.
When I was pregnant with Hayden, I never felt too bad for making Ryan stand in lines for me or taking an offered seat. I never really got that big with Hayden, but it did seem like people—even strangers—went out of their way to make sure that I was comfortable and they’d done everything they could for me.
Less than two weeks after Hayden was born, my mom gave Ryan and me our first night out. It was Valentine’s Day. I was still very much recovering from childbirth and the sleepless nights that followed. I was still wearing maternity clothes, though if I could pass for pregnant it would have probably been in the “is she or isn’t she?” phase. And of course, I was lactating.
We went to a self-service restaurant. I told Ryan what I wanted and went to claim a table. I looked around at the people in the restaurant. No one looked back. No one cast a compassionate, knowing smile in my direction.
I suppose I’d become spoiled, even though now, I’m sure that most of the nice things that people did for me weren’t out of the ordinary. But as I sat there, worried about leaking milk, the bags under my eyes and having the energy to make it through the evening, I wanted to stand on the table and scream, “Look at me! Be nice to me!! I JUST HAD A BABY!!!”
When you’re pregnant, everyone knows it. You’re in hormonal overload and everyone seems to care about you, your baby, your welfare. You lose the belly, though, and you’re just another face in the crowd.
I decided that night that I do want a badge. It doesn’t necessarily have to say, “DANGER: HORMONAL LACTATING MOTHER” (though that might be most useful for people around me!). I’d be okay with something more understated like “New mother; please handle with care.”
As I’ve mentioned before, when commenting on a Blogger blog, it’s easy to get the link to point back to your site (rather than your Blogger profile). If the blogger allows this option, click the “Other” radio button and enter your name and URL.
Do not misunderstand: I love my son very much and would not trade him for a daughter. But before he was born, I was very scared to have a boy because I simply didn’t know what to do with little boys. (Other than, as my great aunt had exclaimed upon returning home at age 2 and finding a new brother there, “put pepper in he eyes and chop off he head!”) (Note: this is not recommended or acceptable or legal.)
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