Twenty-two weeks, and everyone knows it. I love that people open doors for me, pull out chairs for me, help me maneuver this monster belly through tight situations. That is the best social aspect of being visibly pregnant: people feel the need to help, and those who don't are jerks. Jerks.
Where this can get confusing and/or blurry is when people think I can't do things. One thing I'm not is handicapped. Opening doors has always been a particular strong-suit of mine, and I'm pretty sure if given the opportunity, I could still open one. I don't need help pushing my grocery cart or cooking a meal anymore than I did before. Once you're pregnant, you experience the overly-ambitious pregnancy police who try to keep you from doing or touching anything that could possible cause your body to WORK. My husband seems to think that vacuuming and dusting are "too much" for me at this stage and I should be relaxing more. Frankly, I'm insulted. It's not that I CAN'T vacuum and dust, it's that I DON'T. There's a big difference. And we all know how much I love people coming to clean my house. It always works out SO well.
As my thighs and butt balloon, the last thing I want to do is stop moving. I know they tell you, "Nine months to put it on, nine months to take it off," which I'm sure is true, but it still makes me consider adopting the next one when I actually take a moment to look at the size of underwear I just bought at Target. Never has my rear required so much coverage. And it seems no matter how much walking, fiber, or kitchen table squats are included in my day-to-day life, there's no stopping the growth. So do us preggos a favor when you think about offering to do something for us: don't. Let us burn the calories and build the muscle so child birth will be easier and we won't be one of those women who gets asked, "When are you due?" 6 months after giving birth. We're tough. We can handle pumping gas.
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