Congratulations! Did you fart?
Mr. Forty posted a few days ago about the raft of shit I’ve been getting lately for being pregnant. At the time of his post I was filled with an overwhelming sense of “Hell yes!” and “That’s my huzband right there and I’m a lucky woman!” I didn’t have anything really significant to add.
I mentioned in my last post that I found myself at a business dinner with nothing more to contribute to the conversations than my pregnancy. Not that I didn’t try to talk about other things, it’s just those things morphed into “Well that will change,” or “You’ll feel differently in a few months,” or “Interesting strategic insight… so are you going to breastfeed?”
This has been a pretty common theme in the 6 weeks since I’ve been out of the closet. It’s very strange. I don’t happen to be one of those women who subscribe to the societal belief that pregnancy is some form of magic. It’s biology. I had a lot of sex and it had the biological effect it was supposed to have in my lady parts. In fact, I always feel slightly uncomfortable when people say, “Congratulations!” As I often interpret this to mean, “Way to go on the fucking!” Depending on who is telling me congratulations, my perceived subtext can range from creepy to downright horrifying.
Also, “Congratulations!” is a tough one from a societal point of view. I guess I am worthy of a “Congratulations!” because I (for a change) followed society’s rules:
1. I am married. Happily married in fact. (Although I’m sure from the outside there are those that worry that Mr. Forty and I didn’t wait very long – we were married in April of 2013).
2. I am older. This is a tough one from society’s standpoint – get knocked up too young, you’re an After School Special. You’ll only get “Congratulations!” from other WIC and SNAP recipients and an MTV producer. Get knocked up young, you’re wasting your college experience and earning potential. Get knocked up youngish, and people will assume you’re planning to have a whole gaggle of children (oh my poor friends who had one child at 30 and are berated for “not having more”). Get knocked up old and there are a couple different kinds of “Congratulations!” in play – namely that you managed it in the first place and that you got their expectations for you in under the wire.
3. My career is happily in a place and I could be where I am for a very long time and be okay. I can afford this child. I’m more or less done climbing for now. I have the title I wanted, the salary I desired, the team I hoped to build, and the environment where I can make a difference. I’m good. The next level of promotion for me would be one I would have to think about long and hard. I’m not sure I want it right now. That’s a perfect time to have a baby from my point of view.
Looking at all of that, I get a hearty “Congratulations!” from society. Which is totally unfair to all the other women who have children under different circumstances. But life isn’t fair. Teaching Critter that will be one of the hardest lessons I will have to manage. Unless of course he is a mutant and goes Republican or Libertarian on us and names his stuffed animal John Gault. If that happens, I’ll just hope that he’s ruthless enough to amass millions so Mr. Forty and I can actually retire and live in one of Critter’s spare bunkers.
But I digress.
This post was really supposed to be about farting. Yes, I can’t even mention farting without somebody bringing up my pregnancy. To Mr. Forty’s earlier point and to my biggest pet peeve (so far) is that I can’t even make a innocuous post about farting on Facebook without somebody bringing up the fact that I’m growing something inside me (in this case, I guess it’s gas).
Last night I was having a wonderful night with Mr. Forty. I’m getting better at slowing down and lately I’ve taken up an old hobby – reading for pleasure. It’s lovely. So I’m reading on the couch, and Mr. Forty is reading on the couch, and the Christmas tree is still lit, and the lovely dogs are all curled up with us on the couch. All of sudden it smelled like burning tires and skunks. The kind of burning tires and skunks that can only come out of your dog’s asshole. The dog farts that make your eyes water. That make your throat burn. That make your genitals shrink. Dog farts that, if properly managed, could easily be weaponized.
And they never woke up. Furry little bastards.
So I post on Facebook,
“Just sitting on the couch with my beloved, getting gassed out by our furry fart machines. Ya know…Sunday….”
How many comments did it take to either a) accuse me of farting and blaming it on the dogs because I’m pregnant or b) informing me that I’ll soon be farting because I’m pregnant?
Two.
Two comments.
And those comments were my husband and I since we like to comment to each other on Facebook while sitting next to each other. (Critter, if you’re reading this someday because you want to know more about your parents, please know that I love you very much and your father and I are horrible nerds and socially we’re not real well adjusted and this is why sometimes when you talk to somebody you have a crush on you just spontaneously start to drool – it’s genetics and we’re very sorry. Yes, we often talk to each other through social media platforms. Occasionally we argue on a thing called “Twitter” without ever saying an actual word to each other. I’m sorry we’re not cool. I’m sorry we are just a step above mouth breathers. While I have your attention, did you read Atlas Shrugged? Did you like it? If you did, make sure you put Mommy and Daddy in a very nice home when we are older and Mommy will always be happy if you buy her expensive shoes with the money you earned off the backs of the less fortunate).
After several people decided it was perfectly okay to chime in about my intestines (yes, they actually brought my “intestines” into the comments), there were comments about how I can look forward to outgassing my dogs and other disgusting things that many recounted with glee.
I posted about my dogs farting. How much farther from my pregnancy can I get. It’s like carrying a child is it’s own Godwin’s Law. I could post about the atrocities in North Korea and it will give some twat the right to comment, “Just wait until you give birth – that’s a crime against humanity… for your vagina!”
When they say Motherhood changes the way you see yourself, they don’t tell you the whole story – what they mean is – We’ll never see you the same way again.
I’m not so sure I’m down with this new development.
I’m now commenting on my own post.
Why?
Because I posted on FB not ten minutes ago to not let your fur kids out in the yard unsupervised due to New Year’s related fireworks that often spook dogs and lead to escapes over and under the fence. Pretty straight forward post. Just a public service announcement.
Response?
“Soon you’ll be saying DON’T WAKE THE BABY.”
No dear reader, soon I’ll be saying, “WHY DOES THIS GODDAMN GUN HAVE A THREE DAY COOLING OFF PERIOD?”