Exploiting My Baby (15 page)

People I Want to Punch: Don’t Touch Me

 

 

 

W
e pregnant girls are united in what some might call “acquired situational narcissism,” but what I prefer to think of as a harmless case of “It’s all about us.” Who else would even bother pretending to care about nuchal fold measurements or leg cramps?

We need each other. We really do.

That’s why I really hate to turn on my own kind ... but some of them have made my list of people I want to punch.

It seems kind of petty, I know, but I just want to haul off and smack pregnant ladies who get all bent out of shape when people rub their stomachs. You really need to lighten up and get over yourself, two pieces of advice I myself have never been able to take, but which seem very fitting in light of the low level of affront that is actually being done to you. Someone is patting your belly. That’s it. It’s not like strangers are walking up to you for an ambush fisting. That
would
be rude, and unsanitary. No, they are just grazing your shirt, keeping many layers of fabric, skin, fat, muscle and fascia between their fingers and your future child.

And generally, it is not some belly-molesting evil-doer trying to attack you, but rather a nice, well-meaning person experiencing the magnetic pull of your irresistible, giant bump.

If you don’t see why that mesmerizes people, you just don’t understand the miracle of childbirth.
C’mon.
Take a step back. A baby grows in your stomach and comes out of your vagina and then goes to nursery school and becomes a full-fledged human being, who may very well create other full-fledged human beings. If you think about it, and I don’t suggest you do this high, it’s mind-blowing.

I see where you’re coming from. I really do. You don’t think people should invade your body bubble just because you’re pregnant; after all, they wouldn’t do this horrible thing to you if you weren’t pregnant, wouldn’t dream of it. Yes, your body is still your own, absolutely. I just don’t quite grasp the near religious fervor that seems to screech, “Don’t touch me, because I’m so special that if your grubby hand goes anywhere near my precious child, I’m going to get regular people cooties!”

Do you really need the righteously indignant and borderline sanctimonious “Hands Off My Bump” maternity T-shirts and others like it that are available online and also in hell, where ironic maternity T-shirts are very popular? Talk about literally wearing your aggression and smugness on your sleeve.

If you want to hear a chorus of pregnant women shout “Hallelujah,” just start going off about strangers or even relatives touching your stomach, which is why I really wish I could relate or at least fake agree; I’d love a chorus behind me and I think it’s patently obvious I need validation like my fetus needs folic acid. I just can’t lie, though. Women who wear those bitter message T-shirts bother me. Getting riled up about this isn’t nearly as adorably sassy as some women think it is.

I understand pregnancy discomfort and accompanying hormonal moods—I’m sitting here chomping Tropical Fruit Tums as I type this—but someone feeling your pregnant stomach really isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened, is it? And the put-upon attitude doesn’t bode well for your maternal future. If someone touching your belly feels invasive, things are
really
going to get gnarly when the kid invades your space by nursing on your boob ten times a day, or crying while you’re sleeping, or spitting up on one of your hilarious T-shirts. Get ready to have your boundaries crossed, because there are folks who have good reasons to touch your baby. That’s right. Doctors, nurses, midwives, the baby’s father, they will all eventually lay their mitts on your actual young one. The saying goes “It takes a village to raise a child,” not “Everyone in this village better keep their paws off me because I’m more pure than a vat of boiled antibacterial gel in a plastic bubble on Howie Mandel’s desk and the villagers are germy, disgusting losers.”

It would be nice to think of those of us on the verge of becoming mothers as warm, as cuddly, open creatures who will endeavor to make our babies feel safe and cozy in the world, not as rigid rule makers and enforcers who will crumble the first time some poop lands on our pristine white changing table pad or perhaps works its way into our giraffe-themed nursery throw rug.

I hear tell childbirth is going to be a messy business. Hands will be on us, grabbing or cutting out a kid and possibly helping to shove our nipples into their little mouths.

Hands are going to be on our babies eventually. Yeah, it would be nice if they were free of infectious diseases, but I’m just saying it might be time to loosen the lid on the bottle of “don’t touch me.”

The whole “Hands Off” movement reminds me of Les Nessman on the sitcom
WKRP in Cincinnati
and the invisible wall he created to delineate his nonexistent office. It was a funny running joke because it pointed to his character’s essential immaturity. Grow up. You’re pregnant, your stomach is jutting out and people are going to be tempted to reach out and touch it, because that’s the human condition. No amount of brassy, finger-wagging, tell-it-to-the-hand antagonism is going to make a wall where there is none.

My
specialty
is whining about nothing, and this annoys even me. So kindly endure the four seconds of bad touch on your stomach or I’ll secretly fantasize about coming after your face.