FRESH YARN presents: Preggo Land... by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor

FRESH YARN presents:

Preggo Land
By Stefanie Wilder-Taylor

Let me just start by saying if you have an ultrasound picture of your baby stuck on your refrigerator with a magnet, you're not someone I want to be friends with. And if you have someone else's baby's ultrasound picture up there, well, that's just a cry for help. I'm never sure what I'm supposed to say when confronted with this. "Wow, that's one sexy fetus?" I got pictures from my ultrasound too, but I didn't wallpaper the house with them. Isn't it bad enough that we have to see a million pictures of your baby after it's born? Now we have to see what it kinda, sorta looks like before it even comes out?

I knew early on in my pregnancy I wasn't like other pregnant women. When my husband and I went for my ultrasound, (yes, he came with me: there was like a 95% percent chance he was the dad we figured he should tag along), the first thing the nurse asked me was if I'd brought a videotape. A videotape? I must've looked confused because she explained to me, "Most people want to take home a souvenir of this magic event." I nodded and said, "Yeah, I definitely won't need that. I'm barely on board with the whole pregnancy thing as it is." To which the nurse replied that she was reporting me to social services. Okay, she didn't say it out loud but I could see it in her stare.

Clearly there are many, many people who do opt for the ultrasound video. If you are one of them, just know -- I don't want to see it. Oh, and that goes double for your skydiving video. About the only way I'd ever be interested in watching footage of your big jump …is if you don't make it. It's like the world is chock full of people with no clue of their capacity to be irritating. And pregnancy just magnifies it.

Pregnant women seem to take one of two paths when they get knocked up, although -- being annoying -- they'd probably refer to it as a "journey."

First there's the woman who loooooves being pregnant. You know her. She's so excited to join the Cult of Mommy that she's taking pregnancy yoga before the stick turns blue. Anyone who revels this much in being pregnant is suspect in my book. These are the kind of women who will keep a pregnancy journal, refer to the day the baby is born as "the bless-ed event" and throw around the word "amazing" like Jay-Z uses bitch. There's also a very good chance they make their own Christmas tree wreaths and light potpourri. These are not my kind of people.

Most of the women in this camp also refuse to find out the sex of their baby because "they want to be surprised!" I hate people who love surprises. Plus, is it really going to be that much of a surprise? It's either going to be a boy or…it's going to be a girl! Actually, the only real surprise I can think of is if the baby comes out a different race. Then, I would say, it's going to be more of a surprise to the father.

Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards split up when she was seven months pregnant and a lot of people were shocked. I was too. I can't believe he lasted that long. You can just tell by looking at her that Denise is in the above category. I read an interview with her from when she was pregnant with her first kid where she talked about how "complete" she felt and how a Perrier with lime and just a teeny splash of cranberry juice is such a wonderful alternative to a glass of wine. You know what else is a wonderful alternative to a glass of wine? A shot of tequila! Is she on crack? Obviously not, that might make her interesting. Sadly the time pregnant women quit drinking is the time a lot of them most need a drink. Or at least I do to be around them.

I ran into one of these ladies at my OB's office. As you can probably imagine, there's nothing worse than a room full of pregnant women with time on their hands. I had been scanning the room hoping to find someone to talk to who at least had a little bit of personality, so I struck up a conversation with the only woman not knitting. She immediately tried to engage me in a conversation about nursery themes. Up until that moment, I didn't know nurseries had themes. It's not a fucking prom it's a baby's room. I guess having a crib just isn't enough. Now you have to have a jungle theme or a fairy princess theme. There are actually books devoted entirely to this subject. Go to Amazon, type in Baby Nursery and then promptly kill yourself. There are tons of books listed there including one called "Spirit of the Nursery." I'd be willing to bet my baby that Denise owns that book. I'm sorry but this just seems like overkill. Babies don't even see in color until they're teenagers or something.

But the euphoric preggos aren't alone in their ability to empty a room. Pregnancy martyrs, you're also on my watch list.

You know them -- they hate every goddamn minute of being pregnant and can't stop sharing it with the world. The ones who moan about what they can and can't drink; wear; breathe; etc. -- the ones who can detect someone smoking a cigarette from two Starbucks down and demand the offender put it out. You'd think they were the first person to ever get knocked up. They immediately start using the parking space designated for expectant mothers at baby stores (cloyingly named "stork parking.") I want to tell them, "You're not handicapped, you're having a baby. And, trust me, if you could see your ass right now you'd park as far away as possible. You need the exercise." But I keep my mouth shut because pregnant women are good in a fight. Remember, they're fighting for two now.

Look, I know pregnancy is tough. I've been there. I get it: Being the size of John Goodman and swimming in hormones is not pretty. One night when I was about six months pregnant I actually found myself tearing up in my car to a Celine Dion song -- and no, not, the theme to Titanic. Come on, I was pregnant, not 14. In my defense I was a bit drunk (my OB said I could have 5-6 drinks a month…he mentioned nothing about spreading them out.) But the point is, behaving like a normal person is a choice. There's no reason to alienate all your single friends and irritate your poor husband. I know he wants sex and you just want to watch the results show on American Idol. I know you feel too congested to give him a blowjob, but put on a Breathe-Rite strip and take care of business. Suck it up, sisters (intended). Take one for the team. And for God's sake please don't email me any more pictures of your sonogram.