"Oh, you're pregnant? You know, it gets hot over the summer." "Congratulations! Labor hurts!" "You know, the baby eats everything you eat." "You're not going to be able to fit into those jeans for long!"
You announce your big news, and suddenly everyone is Bill Nye the Science Guy. They're all geniuses who studied under Dr. Spock himself and hold graduate degrees in sonography and fetal development. And you threw out all brain cells when you welcomed your fetus. What is it about a protruding belly that screams "I don't know any better" to everyone? This being my fourth pregnancy, I kind of know what to expect. I know I'm going to be emotional. I know about stretch marks. I know about vomiting. Heck, I even know about the c-section that will bring this journey to an end. Been there, done that folks. But you can't convince them.
People assume that an announcement (or appearance) of pregnancy is a cry for help, an open call for advice. I'm very glad that castor oil worked for you, but I'd prefer not to poop myself, thank you. I can read. I DO read. It's a little-known fact that expectant mothers, regardless of the number of children they've had, soak up every bit of pregnancy literature they can and have at least 4 pregnancy apps on their phones. We keep watching A Baby Story, even though we've seen them all. We know what to expect when we're expecting, but we still keep that giant book in the bathroom. Well, maybe not Michelle Duggar, but I can't be sure. She does have an iPhone.
So please give us pregnant gals the benefit of the doubt. We do have momnesia. We are scatter-brained. We are sleep-deprived. And we're most likely hungry. But we're not dumb. We're aware of the temperature. We've heard about gravity. Even the food pyramid rings a bell. The best kind of advice is the advice that's asked for. Now go save someone else, Captain Obvious.
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