Thoughts On A Rainy Day
October 14, 2005
My pregnancy with my daughter was no different than it had been with any of the boys. There was no real discernible difference. That is something people loved to ask me during all my pregnancies following the first one.
“Do you feel different?” or “Are you carrying differently?”
The one and only thing that was different was I had an overwhelming craving for all things citrus. I could not drink enough orange juice, lemonade, and other citrusy foods. I would call Rob up at work and demand that he stop at the store and buy me orange juice. And leave work soon, I don’t care what you are doing. It’s for the baby! The baby needs vitamin C. With all the boy pregnancies I craved tomatoes and put ketchup on everything. I would make french fries just to have a socially acceptable tool for getting the ketchup into my mouth.
But with my daughter, I must have consumed a half gallon of orange juice alone per day.
Oh, and the lemonade at McDonald’s was just too strong of a craving for me to pass up. One day I drove through the drive through bought a lemonade, drank it on the way out of the driveway and promptly pulled back in and bought another one. I’m sure the drive through girl thought I was nuts, but I was pregnant, dammit, I needed that lemonade.
Then there was the time that I was a a party thrown by the wife of Rob’s boss. She had a few drinks too many and added to her already boisterous personality was a bad combination. She paraded me around the party commenting on my “fat ass”.
I know that in her own twisted way she was trying to make me feel good, to be encouraging, to make me feel hopeful that I could be carrying a fetus of the female variety, but dear lord the last thing you want when you are 6 months pregnant and dressed up for a party and thinking you are looking pretty nice, despite the weight of an extra person you are carrying around, is for someone to point out the spread of your backside.
She kept saying over and over and over again, ‘I just *know* you are having a girl. I mean look at how big your ass is!’ And then she would pull someone over and ask them what they thought. If they said boy she would turn me around and point to my “fat ass”.
Finally I told her that if I had a girl I would forgive her, but if it were a boy I’d would have no choice but to hunt her down and hurt her, possibly kill her, for the humiliation she was forcing me to endure. I’m sure that in the back of Rob’s co-workers minds I am forever the wife with the fat ass.
And so since I had a girl I have forgiven her, sort of.
It also helps that her husband got a different job and I don’t have to see her ever again.
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