So, I always got along better with dogs than kids. I saw babies as very cute, very small poop machines; and they terrified me. Therefore, when I discovered I was pregnant, I went through the mood swings of a Republican housewife: first I was elated, then I realized I had absolutely no clue what I was doing.
I sank to my bathroom floor and found myself chanting, like a yogi with borderline personality disorder, “I’m-having-a-baby-yay-what–do-I-do-now?” I was pretty sure that my baby talk consisted more of “Sit, that’s a good boy” than “gaga-goo-goo.”
Here comes Facebook to save the day. The good part about being a late bloomer (read: emotionally immature for my age) was that I was the last standing single lady in my group of friends.
Every woman I knew was apparently a pregnancy expert, and I got free life hacks on everything, from extending the life of your favorite skinny jeans to relieving morning sickness. I’m in my third trimester, and I still don’t have a single pregnancy book. I have a lot of reference material on bringing up happy, healthy pugs, though. I had this handled.
Preparing for two as a single mom
Rather, I thought I did. I’m a single mom, and perhaps as a consequence thereof, people misplace their brains when talking to me. It’s like the zombie apocalypse and I’m suddenly responsible for brainless hordes of the un-dead. I have heard more offensive comments over the past few months than ever in my entire life.
In direct correlation to my growing tummy, my sarcastic sense of humor flourished, watered generously by a daily sprinkling of hormones. My prim-and-proper saint of a mother was appalled: “Why don’t you just ignore them? Focus on the positive. Negative feelings are bad for your baby.” She’s right, of course, but while I can’t have sushi and beer, I have to indulge my acerbity or I’ll fart.
Here’s how I avoided flatulence.
First Trimester
“I wasn’t sure if you were pregnant or you just got fat.”
It’s that tenuous period before your baby bump gets cute, and you’re craving copious amounts of ice cream topped with anchovies. You gag at your best friend’s deodorant, you are addicted to ginger tea, and the elevator makes you nauseated. You’ve just gained 10 pounds out of nowhere, and you can’t close your jeans anymore. You know you’re fat; you just don’t need Little Miss Perfect with her clear skin and porcelain teeth to proclaim it.
My reply: “I’m bringing booty back.”
What she should have said: “Girl, you are all about the bass, no treble!” – Then we can flash mob to Meghan Trainor ‘cause we gangsta like that.
“Aren’t you too old to have a baby?”
I love this question. (I’m in my 30s by the way.) It should be filed as the most passive aggressive question known to man. You can answer how you like, the asker will always win. You can’t be a jerk, or you risk seeing their self-satisfied smile. You can’t be honest, because they’ll feign concern and gossip about you behind your back. Instead, be the Miley Cyrus to their Lindsay Lohan.
My reply: “That’s okay dear. You’re too old to wear that dress.”
What she should have said: Nothing. She should keep as far away from me as possible.
“So what are you going to do with the baby?”
I’ll be honest, this question stumped me. I stared at the person, mouth open, and replied, “Is this multiple choice?” I really didn’t get it. Apparently the choices were adoption or abortion. The insinuation and judgment made with wide-eyed improbable innocence were plain.
My reply: “Did you know that after pregnancy some women become mothers?”
What she should have said: “Congratulations!” No brainer, for realz.
“Why didn’t you pee before we left the house?”
At one point in my first trimester, I had to go every 15 minutes. You could have set a watch to my bladder. A friend joked about it: “Ever need to find the bathroom? A pregnant woman will always know where it is.” Seriously, this predictability happened even at night when I would rather be sleeping, so I was uncomfortable and sleep-deprived. My bladder is more important than your punctuality at this point, all right?
My reply: “My bladder forgot that it’s empty. It needs reminding.”
What she should have said: “Turn left at the end of the hall.”
“Your boobs look great!”
This one came from men. Unbeknownst to naïve little me, some men become even more aggressive when they look at single pregnant women. We become a beacon for the strangest fetishes. A friend apologetically enlightened me: “Babe, sorry. Preggo porn is a thing. It’s a real thing.” Plus I’m Asian, so I was suddenly a 2-for-1 deal. Imagine my excitement. *sarcasm*
My reply: “Come near me and I will cut you.”
What he should have said: “Would you like some chocolate?”
Find out how she responded to offensive questions in her second trimester on the next page…
Second Trimester
“You’re pregnant! How did that happen?”
Now I’m starting to show a cute belly bump, and people like grabbing my tummy so much I could have been tested for their DNA. That I was pregnant seemed a huge shock to people who didn’t follow my Facebook rants about my pregnancy. This question never failed to make me laugh.
My reply: “First he asked me to have dinner…” or “So, about the birds and the bees…” or “Let me introduce you to Tinder…”
What she should have said: You got me. I got nothing.
“So you’re still single—you had sex before marriage?”
This topped the list of “Most Awkward Questions” ever. I don’t know if the asker was naïve, brainless, or high. Maybe I should have asked. Maybe it’s what I get for living in a predominantly Catholic country. Having been brought up Catholic myself, I guess I’d forgotten that Sex Ed was not part of those Sunday Catechism classes.
My reply: “Oh no no no honey, of course not. What’s that?”
What she should have said: Talk to your priest, honey. Not to me.
“You’re huge! How many are you having?”
I really don’t get why people ask this. As much as every build is different, so is every bump. I showed early; by the time I was in my fifth month people thought I was in my third trimester. And as much as I didn’t appreciate being called “fat” in my first trimester, being called “huge” in my second trimester was no less welcome. Duh.
My reply: “I’m having a litter. Maybe around 6 or 7.”
What she should have said: “You’re glowing!”
“Why didn’t you plan better? A child is no laughing matter and should be taken seriously!”
Okay, perhaps the insensitive people that said this really meant well. Maybe they really were concerned about my child, and about the kind of life that I’d give her. Nevertheless, it’s an example of the poppycock that should be kept to oneself. It’s true—if you have nothing nice to say, shut up and talk to your therapist instead.
My reply: “Do I look like I’m laughing?” – You don’t want to know the rest. This question brought me straight from sarcastic to shrew: do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
What they should have said: “I’m here if you need to talk.”
“Feeling horny? How about it?”
See Trimester 1, Question 5. It spilled over into my second trimester as well. And to be fair, I’ve known several women whose libido spiked during their pregnancy. I was not one of them, unfortunately for the guys that, um, generously offered their “services.” The chutzpah was admirable. The overfamiliarity was not.
My reply: “Come near me and I will cut you.”
What he should have said: “Would you like some chocolate?”
Find out how she handled ignorant comments in her third trimester on the next page…
Third Trimester
By now, people have gotten the clue: ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. But there was one burning question that raised a gossip storm as wild as a forest fire: “Who’s the Daddy?”
I’d been asked this so many times I had several snarky replies prepared:
- Not you.
- I’m checking Tinder.
- I’m the father, I’m auditioning for the mother. Know anyone interested?
- I’m asexual. I inseminated myself.
- Are you volunteering?
Some people actually had the cheek to get offended. “I’m just asking!” they would pout. I would smile serenely and reply with saccharine sweetness, “And I’m just saying—it’s none of your bloody business.”
In a rare moment of honesty, I admitted to a friend why I refused to answer the question. It’s because I wanted to protect the father, just in case he decided to come back; I didn’t want him resurfacing amidst all that negativity and hate, even if controlling the opinions and values of others is near impossible. I still try, though, even if his return is probably a pipe dream. However, more than that, I want my daughter to respect her father—or at least not hate him. The less people know about the Baby Daddy, the better.
Does it hurt that he’s not around? Yeah, sometimes. But it hurt so much more when a close friend accused me of using sex to get what I wanted. For obvious reasons, we’re not so close anymore.
Being strong does not mean being immune to the hurtful pregnancy comments
People ask me if I play Mozart for the baby, and if I read to her. If I don’t, I’m supposedly neglectful of my baby’s needs, and I’m a selfish mom who puts myself first. I’m unready to be a mother. I roll my eyes, then reply that we prefer Nicki Minaj and Led Zepellin.
I’m not really the dramatic type. I’m more likely to cry at Master Chef eliminations than at The Notebook. You can expect snarky jokes and sarcasm more than feelings and problems. Nevertheless, just because I mask them under a biting sense of humor and a sharp tongue doesn’t mean I don’t get those same feelings as well.
I’ve felt it all.
Your head says there’s nothing to feel ashamed of, but your heart is aching. You remind yourself to be grateful that you’re having a child, even if you know that single parenthood is the life equivalent of a colonoscopy.
You’re happy that nobody’s arguing with you about things like schools, names, religions and so forth, but you wish someone were there to bring you chocolate and rub your feet.
You’re lonely but you know you would be just as lonely with someone who doesn’t want to be around.
You’re worried about illegitimacy, but you’d be more worried about a loveless home.
There are many more, and to expound would go against my defense mechanisms of sarcastic humor to deny #thefeels.
And I swear to you—next time a married couple says to me they’re so jealous that I’m having a child because they’ve been trying to no avail, I will swallow a gerbil.
The grass on your side of the fence would be as green as mine if you watered it.
Sometimes I can’t even blame hormones anymore for the mood swings. One minute, I’m astounded at the blessing I’ve received. Next minute, I’m terrified I’m doing the wrong thing. Sounds like normal parenthood to me. An hour later, all these anxieties fade because the baby has her head wedged by my ribs and is kicking my bladder. I am in between needing to pee and laughing at the waves moving across my midsection.
Different women choose different paths
There are lots of ways to skin a cat. A friend just got married, and has chosen not to have children. Another couple has chosen adoption instead of natural birth. A girl friend went the sperm donor way.
Some women are forced to leave their kids with their ex-husbands through no fault of their own. I happen to be heading the single mom way. Who’s to say which way is the right way?
I’ve learned a lot over the past few months, and I’m sure when Mini-Me pops out I’ll learn even more. I’ve learned to be kind, because we don’t know what battles others are fighting. I’ve learned there’s a good story behind everything.
I’ve learned not to compare. I’ve learned not to judge myself. I’ve learned that humor and common sense are great weapons against mood swings and trials. I’ve learned to trust my instincts; Mommy’s Intuition does not lie.
And on particularly hard days, I mix up a tiny bit of coffee with three scoops of ice cream, and say “Yo, haters gon’ hate. Back off, yawl; I’ve got this.”
Ana Warren Gonzalez is mother to a pug, and expectant mother to a baby girl (human). She is a writer, PR executive and events planner.
READ: The ups and downs of being a single mom
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