C’mon, baby, let’s do the waddle
On Monday, I went to register at the health centre in our area. A midwife is resident at the practice so, having registered, I wanted to book an appointment with her. Without taking her eyes from the screen, the receptionist asked, “How many weeks pregnant are you?” “Twenty-four,” I said. She looked surprised and eyed me from top to toe.
In retrospect, she was probably just thinking it’s pretty lax to wait until you’re almost six months along to see someone. In fact, that is likely all she was thinking since she then asked if this was the first time I was seeing someone, which I thought a bit of a silly question but maybe there are people who wait until they’re popping out to seek medical advice. I don’t know these people. But I believe they must be made of stronger and scarier stuff than I.
Instead I went away thinking that she must have been surprised at how small I was for twenty-four weeks (a nice change from certain acquaintances who love to remind me that I look enormous before even saying hello). This happy thought was reaffirmed yesterday when my dentist was surprised that I was pregnant, inspected my tummy and said, “Oh but you’re so tiny!”
So I went on my merry way. I even announced at the dinner table last night that two people this week hadn’t thought I looked particularly pregnant.
Then my brother said, “But everyone can tell from how you walk.”
I do beg your pardon.
Seeing that he could be digging himself into a bad spot he said, “You know. You look like someone carrying something… delicate.”
Well, blow me down. Pregnant women must be terrifying. My brother who usually has no trouble frankly insulting me has decided to tread carefully in telling me that I have a pregnant waddle.
A waddle at 24 weeks. Thanks, SPD.
Image: David Wright