Let me start out by saying this- I detest bra shopping. It is only second to swimsuit shopping in my list of things I hate to shop for. So, imagine starting my day out knowing that I had to shop for both a new bra and a swimsuit in the same day. I loaded Adaline up in her stroller and went into Dillards. It was so easy. Not one, but two swimsuits- both fit me and looked halfway decent. And I found a super cute bra that I was almost 100% sure would fit- all in under an hour. Most amazing shopping trip ever. Until it happened.
I've been waiting for someone who likes to ask questions to enter into my life, someone to make me just absolutely lose my shit in public. Insert little old lady who works in the bra section. I head to the dressing room and she begins to play with Ada, calling her "he" over and over again. When she asked when "his" birthday was I replied, "She turned two in March." To which she replied, "Oh, does she have a brother?"
Who asks that? And why? I stumbled and mumbled around my words not knowing what to say and finally decided on, "No, no she doesn't have a brother." The bra fit perfectly. It was $38.00 and I wanted to buy two, but they didn't have another one in that style that was my size. The sales woman tried to sell me eleventybillion other styles of bras and I finally just told her that I was expecting another baby and that I anticipated an increase in cup size so I wasn't planning to make another purchase.
"Oh, well, maybe you'll get a boy this time." Yes. maybe I will. This time. And maybe he will live this time. Two swimsuits, one bra, and one panic attack in the parking lot. Not bad for $150.00.
People just don't know. It's not like they are out to get me, or hurt me, but they just don't know. Even though I feel like I'm walking around with a huge sign on my head that reads, "Hey, be careful. I'm barely holding it together here," I'm actually not wearing that sign. No one can see it. I'm beginning to prepare for a pregnancy full of these comments once I start showing.
"Oh, a little brother for her."
"Oh, just wait till you have two- you'll have your hands full."
"She's going to be such a good big sister."
I had to go to get an official pregnancy test this week. Amongst the slew of boxes I've never had to check before were:
Have you been pregnant in the last 18 months? Yes.
Have you ever had a miscarriage, stillbirth, or an infant death? Yes.
Have you suffered from depression in the past 12 months? Yes.
Have you had thoughts of harming yourself in the past 12 months? Yes.
Have you taken medication for anxiety/depression in the past 12 months? Yes.
That nurse must've thought I was batshit crazy. She said, "So it looks here like you've had a recent miscarriage." Huh? No. I told her about Charlie and she cried and had to leave the room. She was pregnant. She came back moments later saying she was having some hormonal problems- bullshit. It's okay to cry. My baby died sleeping and you are scared it could happen to you too. It's normal to be afraid. Somehow, I left that interaction feeling guilty for scaring her. Poor nurse.
The general public has become so much easier to deal with in the past month, but there are lines yet to be crossed and I haven't run into many nosy people. I know that when I begin to show the boundary lines widen by lengths and bounds. People feel like they can say anything to a pregnant woman, and that doesn't change because of the invisible sign on my head that I think should warn them that I am fragile.
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