I am dying to tell someone that I’m pregnant and I want to do it in a really cute, slightly cheesy way. You know… leave a pair of knitting needles with tiny baby socks on them stuck in the cushions of the sofa or maybe “accidentally” put a little baby rattle in with Mr. Man’s rattles.
It’ll all be very I Love Lucy or Family Ties. Mr. Man will freak out for a minute and then he’ll tearfully hug me and rub my belly and I’ll stop eating fried foods and dying my hair because it’s bad for the baby.
I’m thinking maybe I’ll tell him tonight. I’ll probably fix him a martini and when he asks where mine is, I’ll say “babies don’t like martinis”.
There is a little glitch in my plans for this evening that I should probably give some thought to however.
I don’t know how to make a martini, I’m not pregnant and frankly I can’t say with any authority that babies don’t like martinis because as I just told you, I don’t know how to make them so I’ve never offered one to a baby. Maybe they like them very much and in reality they cry all the time because they can’t say “where the hell is my martini, woman”.
Stupid babies. I can’t say phenylpropanolamine and you don’t see me crying all the time.
I realize the fact that I’m not pregnant should probably stop me from telling people that I’m pregnant, but I really, really want to. I’ve been pregnant twice in my life and both times, nobody was especially happy to hear the news. I think at some point in my life I deserve to have someone be thrilled out of their minds to know I’m carrying a little zygote around and puking every three minutes.
I should be honest here and tell you that although I want to tell people I’m pregnant in order to get positive attention, I would rather lick the floor of a truck stop than actually be pregnant. I don’t do pregnant well. For the great majority of my pregnancies I throw up everything but the baby because even moving my eyeballs makes me vomit. And then once I’ve popped the little cuties out, I get to experience the joy that is severe post-partum depression and psychosis.
Its loads of hormonal fun.
Of course, I do have the distinction of being the only woman in the last 100 years or so to have given birth to two perfect children so no matter how much crap I have to go through to bring forth life, I am crazy good at it.
As I’ve said before, my vagina is magic. If I had given birth to George W. Bush, the United States would have flying cars and we’d all know that the cure for cancer is just plain old grass seed.
There is also the little matter of me not really liking babies so even if by the miracle of science and Vodka I were to become pregnant, I’d probably give it to someone very deserving, like Madonna or Angelina Jolie. Before you freak out and start throwing stones at my picture, I think it’s normal not to like babies when you’re forty-three. In fact I think it’s biological. Nobody wants to see an old chick wearing a T-shirt with an arrow pointing south saying anything. Ever.
When I say I don’t like them, it isn’t that I think babies are bad. I just mean that if one is in the room, I like to be in a different room. If a baby is in a restaurant, I like to be in my car driving to another restaurant. If a baby decides to see a movie after they’ve enjoyed a nice dinner out, I like to wait until the movie comes out on DVD.
I could go on and on about how babies are ruining everything from shopping to popcorn shrimp, but I have to go put a plastic baby in the middle of the roast I’m making for Mr. Man’s dinner. I’ve decided that’s how I’m gonna tell him.
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