PregnaNazis

Well we survived Christmas again.  All six of them.  It makes me feel like Reese and Vince in that movie "Four Christmases" were wusses.  They only had four Christmases to go to and they snuck off to tropical destinations year after year.  Not me and my husband.  We put on our big girl panties (literally - you try eating six Christmas meals in twenty four hours) and face the music.  We hit all six Christmas festivities with a jolliness not even Santa can pull off.  Speaking of which, Santa can bite me.  He just swoops in, drops off a few gifts, and leaves.  Not me.  I bring presents, casseroles, and small talk.  I bring sonogram pictures and gift receipts (because we both know you are returning that scarf the day after Christmas).  Heck, I even bring my husband and my two dogs.  Now that I am thinking about it - I am way more useful than Santa.  People should collect figurines of me to decorate their mantel.

As I went through this Christmas I thought about my favorite things of the holiday season now that our family unit is expanding by one.  And I came to one major conclusion: my favorite thing about Christmas is house trailers with colored Christmas lights and inflatable decorations.  Always has been and always will be.  There is nothing that can change that, and I just hope my kid has a fondness for the delightfully tacky like me.  But I also enjoyed getting gifts for Peanut.  And, here it comes...wait for it....second sentimental thing I am saying on this blog about this baby - I get it, in a very small and seemingly unimportant way, what they mean when they say parenthood makes you a selfless person.  I was more excited about receiving gifts for someone I have never met than I was for my own presents.  Those little stuffed animals and pacifiers made me just a little impatient for Peanut to make his/her grand arrival.

Now that that is out of the way, on to my new observations about this little journey I am on. ***Disclaimer: The following rant may offend you.  You have been warned and I mean nothing personal.  ***

I have discovered a new species of life that I am pretty sure has been around for ages but yet to be fully studied in its natural habitat.  I have named these people the PregnaNazis but you can call them whatever you wish.   These are the women (and men, see below) who read the entire series of What to Expect in between bouts of morning sickness and already have daycare, pediatricians, and childbirth figured out.  They have successfully memorized every list out there on what foods are now off limits and have probably added a few just to sound more self-sacrificial.  These are the women who openly gaze at you with disdain at the restaurant when you are lovingly enjoying your SINGLE glass of red wine while attempting to pick out baby names.  Now, note to self: perhaps picking out baby names while you comment on how great your pinot noir is isn't strictly PC.  But come on! I get like one glass a week, and I will not apologize for it.  I am fairly certain French women have been having an occasional glass of wine for hundred of years and they seem to turn out okay. 

These are also the same women who have an opinion on every facet of MY pregnancy.  Let me spell it out for you PregnaNazi woman at Old Navy.  I am simply here picking out elastic waistband jeans because I am worried my lower extremities are going to rot off from lack of blood flow due to the extreme tightness of my current jeans.  I am NOT by any means soliciting your opinion on lunch meat, epidurals, or organic baby bedding.  I, in fact, am already signed up for an epidural class so there will be no chance they can't stick that big needle into my back at the first sign of labor.  I also just finished a cold (gasp) turkey sandwich with soft, probably unpasteurized cheese (double gasp) and plan on having sushi and wine for dinner (OH M. GEE).  I have given up alcohol (with the exception of that once weekly glass of wine) caffeine, aspartame, smoking, any semblance of obtaining a flat stomach or losing that last ten pounds, and most of my social life.  Bug off - that's all I have to give.

As a side note, for the male PregnaNazis out there.  (And yes this is a true subset of the species - rarer but infinitely more annoying).  You are a man.  And unless you are a board certified OBGYN you have absolutely no right to tell me anything about pregnancy or child birth.  I don't give you advice on your prostate health do I? Some of you might think, surely not. Surely there are not men out there with the gall to tell a pregnant lady what to do or not to do.  But yes, there are.  And until your pee makes two little lines show up on a pregnancy test you may not, under any circumstances, tell me what to do for the next six months - or ever really but especially for the next six months.  Because while you may have convinced your wife that an at home water birth would be better for the baby, it will not be better for me, and I would prefer it if my child did not enter the world hearing its mother scream a litany of four letter words while cursing its father for ever being born.  And, on top of that, every time I pass our bathtub I would rather not think of what went down in there. Lets keep it clean and keep me at the hospital.

Whew, I feel better. Now, for a snack.