Commuting didn’t used to bother me. I could push and shove, glare, and snarl with the best of them. I admit to looking at people with strollers on the Tube and rolling my eyes, wondering why they just HAD to take their rugrats somewhere in rush hour, for god’s sake. I’ve actually gotten off of trains and gone to another section just to avoid being near a misty-eyed baby with a set of pipes that would make Christina Aguilera sound like a wee little lamb, or an unruly toddler with a crusty, Ribena-stained grin. Yuck.
As an imment mother and Londoner I still think it’s a bad idea to take the kiddies into the pit of hell that is the London Underground between the hours of 8-9.30am and 4-7pm. But I never thought that simply being pregnant and using public transportation would be considered such a faux pas and attract daily stares, sighs and random comments.
Men are the worst observers of pregnant woman/public transportation etiquette. They usually either ignore me, pretending not to notice the huge belly sticking out right under their noses as they recline in a comfy seat and read the paper, or they stare at me like they can’t believe I am not at home patting my stomach lovingly, baking cookies and doing lamaze breathing exercises. Women also stare at me but at least they offer their seats and realize that I’m still a person who has to work and go about some semblance of a daily life, not just be a pod for my baby.
Some people look at me like I’m making them uncomfortable and am an inconvenience. Ooh, sorry everyone, I hope the human growing in me isn’t freaking you out! And by the way, being pregnant isn’t all sunshine and roses. You try strapping 20 lbs to your stomach and then getting kicked repeatedly in it, having random leg cramps, lower back pain, a seperated pelvis, shortness of breath, heartburn, headaches, nausea, bleeding gums, a sore navel, leaking boobs, itchy skin and a bladder the size of a pea. Oh, and all while not smoking, drinking, eating your favorite foods, and having so many hormones being pumped through your body that the store being out of Reeses Cups is enough to make you cry for an hour and then plot the shopkeeper’s death.
Finally, the comments. Oh, the comments. I just love it when strangers and acquaintances feel the need to make mindless small talk about my bump. “God, you’re huge!” or “Are you sure it’s not twins?” (hardy har har — fucking morons). People still ask me if I’m having morning sickness or if I’ve had weird cravings. Umm, that was in the first trimester. Do I look like I’m in my first frickin’ trimester buddy? My new fav is people asking (on trains, in shops, etc..) “are you going to have that thing here?” First of all — THING? Jeez, how lovely. Secondly, I only *wish* that labor was so quick that I could be in a store picking out greeting cards one minute and the next be cradling my newborn baby in my arms and asking for someone to cut the cord. Hey, I could pick out birth announcements right there in Aisle 2! Jesus H. Christ, are people really this ignorant and lacking in brain cells and/or tact? Yep, one of my hobbies is walking around acting completely normal but really being in full-blown labor. A friend suggested a comeback for this particular gem the other day though, and I can’t wait to use it: “Why, did you want to eat the placenta?” It’s so evil and sick but I bet it gets them to shut up, go away, and think twice before making asinine comments to a heavily pregnant woman at the checkout again. La la la-la-la!
