In these nearly 16 weeks, I’ve decided my experience of knocked-uppedness is maybe one of the most empowering of my life: right up there with living abroad, delivering a commencement address and passing the bar exam.
Here’s why: Pregnancy makes me think more thoughtfully about well…everything. It forces me to consider the world, and the people in it, in terms of my almost-kid. And it causes me to say out loud the stuff most
normal people would just sort of keep in their heads. Noteworthy: I’m traditionally a little reserved, circumspect.
Whether thanks to progesterone or pending parenthood, however, I can’t seem to help myself. I feel I already have an obligation to this kid. I mean, sure, I know our fetus isn’t actually going to hear me for another couple of weeks – and when (s)he does I’ll probably sound like that teacher in Peanuts – but I’m already busy setting precedent. Mama will ward off many things retrograde nuts and unacceptable in your honor!
The other day, for example, I called the cops on a dipshit.
Police dispatcher (serious): 911-emergency. What’s your emergency?
Me (chipper): Oh hi! I’d like to report a dipshit.
Police dispatcher (serious): A what, ma’am?
Me (chipper): A dipshit. I’m driving south on 95 between mile marker [such-and-such and such-and-such] and I just witnessed a middle-aged Caucasian male, a speeder in a greenish-colored Escort, circa 2002, nearly sideswipe two vehicles before forcing a third, mine, off the road. So do you think you can get someone to verify for me whether he’s drunk, reckless or just stupid?
Police dispatcher (serious): Yes, ma’am. Radio 435, come in, we have a report of a…
Me (chipper): A dipshit.
Police dispatcher (serious): A…reckless driver.
I missed my exit on purpose to watch him get pulled over for speeding a half mile out. Justified, fulfilled, I thought how absolutely marvelous, and extremely convenient, it would be if I could call the cops on everyone who acts a fool or talks nonsense.
But the thing with fools and nonsense is it’s not always this “out there,” this global. Sometimes it lives in your own back yard. It calls you on the telephone. Or it knocks on your door. Or you run into it at the mall despite your best efforts to avert your gaze and make like you don’t see it coming and screaming your name.
I guess, in such instances, because you can only ward off many (not all) things retrograde nuts and unacceptable, you pick your battles and they pick their poison. Hear this if you value your life: I’m actually pregnant (not fat in the uterus), and I tried very hard to get like this. So there.