it’s the hormones

DISCLAIMER: I’m pretty sure this is going to turn into a rant. If you don’t want to experience the rant, go read in another corner and check back with me later.

I try to be kind and polite to everyone, not matter how unintelligent I think they may be or sound. But I would like everyone to know that behind the smile and dimple, I have other thoughts that are usually sarcastic and not as nice.

Today I went in for my second ultrasound of the week. The ultrasound technician was a different one than the one who has given me every other ultrasound I’ve had. I didn’t like this, I get attached and I didn’t like this technician. She wasn’t mean, but she wasn’t nice either. She didn’t tell us what was going on, which is kind of important to me.

What she says: “Well, I think he passed everything today.”

What goes on in my head: You think? Could ya double check, it’s kind of important to our overall well-being? [My head shakes.]

Then I met with one of the other doctors, instead of my regular doctor. It’s a female doctor. I prefer male doctors because they don’t get that fake, three-octaves-too-high voice when they talk to you. But I was willing to give this nice doctor lady a shot. She came in the the room where Matt and I were waiting…

What she says: “You have an infection. Did you know?”

What goes on in my head: Um…no, or I might have called or said something.

What she says: “Have you noticed any abdominal discomfort or anything?”

What goes on in my head: Really? Where is my abdomen again? Oh, that huge thing that blocks my view of everything except my belly button; that thing that’s stretched to the max and full of a living, moving being; that thing that rubs the magnets off the fridge when I get stuff out of the freezer; that thing that’s been in a constant state of various levels of discomfort since January? Well, I thought “abdominal discomfort” was all part of the job description, so I didn’t think of calling in and complaining about it. I can imagine how that conversation would go:

“Hi, how can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m experiencing some abdominal discomfort.”

“Okay, let’s look at your chart…well, dear, you’re pregnant! That’s why you’re uncomfortable, silly.”

“Oh, wow, thanks for clearing that up.”

I don’t know, it just seems like the what the “witty” people always say when you say, “I think I have something in my eye.” And they say something lame like, “Yeah, it’s your finger.” I call and say, “I’m having abdominal discomfort.” And the nurse says, “Yeah, you’re pregnant, moron.”

Since I’m started.

I also got annoyed with the flat-chested employee and the older employee at the maternity store I was at the other day. First of all, they were having a very loud, personal (and dumb) conversation while I browsed their clearance section. I caught on very fast (because she mentioned it a dozen times in five minutes) that the flat-chested one was pregnant but not very far along.

The flat-chested one measures me and fits me for a nursing bra. I make a negative reaction to the size she declares, which then makes her go into telling me how it’s not as bad as it seems.

Her commentary annoys me because I’ve been busty since puberty, and I know exactly what it means, thank you very much.

Then the older one explains to me how a bra should fit, just in case I woke up that morning and discovered my chest.

Um, I’ve been wearing a bra for 12 years, I think I know how they work.

They both give me a few different styles and sizes to try on.

While I’m trying the giant nursing bras on, they badger me constantly, and ask how it’s going.

Leave. Me. Alone. Talking to me while I’m in the changing room is a lot like talking to the person in the stall next to you in the bathroom: you don’t unless you need toilet paper or you are close friends and the only ones in the bathroom.

They give me advice on names, how I should give birth (just ask for a c-section to make sure I have my baby on 10/10/10), etc. all while I’m trying bras on in the changing area.

I make polite responses while glaring and rolling my eyes.

I left as soon as I could and I won’t be going back any time soon.

I know that being pregnant means people are going to always ask me a lot of the same questions, give me unwanted advice, and possibly want to touch me. For the most part, I don’t mind the repeated questions, people just want to know and that’s okay. I don’t even mind most of the advice. I do mind:

  • Advice from people (single girls on campus, specifically) who have never been pregnant and have no idea what they are talking about.
  • Advice from perfect strangers on how I should deliver my baby.
  • People who don’t really know me but feel obligated to touch my belly because there’s a baby inside. (Luckily, this has only happened twice.)
  • People telling me how “small” I am. What are they comparing me to? An elephant? Compared to me, I’m huge.

End of longest post ever.

FYI: I’m addicted to peppermint TUMS. I think my mascara smells like honey. I really, really, REALLY want some Oreos (but I don’t get any, because my carb allowance is 3 and I don’t trust myself to eat only 3 when there’s a whole package sitting in front of me). Turning on the AC in the car makes me thirsty. The dandelion desktop wallpaper for Mac makes me sleepy.