By Melissa Face
The best advice is this: Don't take advice and don't give advice.
~Author Unknown
Most pregnant women have met them, perhaps even been stopped by them. And a ticket? Well, that's not out of the question either. Anything is possible when you encounter the pregnancy police.
The best advice is this: Don't take advice and don't give advice.
~Author Unknown
Most pregnant women have met them, perhaps even been stopped by them. And a ticket? Well, that's not out of the question either. Anything is possible when you encounter the pregnancy police.
I first met these constables of conception when I announced my pregnancy to co-workers. People who had barely muttered "good morning" in the past were suddenly concerned about whether I had signed up for a short-term disability policy or if I had a flexible spending account for the baby's medical care. I assured them that I had everything under control. In reality, I had just gotten used to the idea that a baby was actually inside me. Though they were well-meaning, the pregnancy police managed to make me feel more inadequate than I ever imagined.
As my baby grew, so did the list of suggestions from the pregnancy patrol. I was issued a warning for coffee drinking in the break room at work. "You really should switch to decaf," a concerned citizen offered. "Caffeine is not good for the baby. And remember, that brownie contains caffeine, too." I thanked her for the reminder and went on with my business.
A few weeks later, I came down with a terrible sinus infection and stayed out of work for two days. When I returned, I was swiftly subpoenaed to my department's meeting area. A panel of investigators wanted to know what was wrong. "Have you had a fever?" they asked. "How high was it? You know you can only take Tylenol, don't you?" I did know. But I thanked them for their concern anyway and returned to my desk.
Tired, nauseous, and congested, I did my best to fly beneath the radar of the pregnancy police. I walked quickly in the hallways, hid behind the piles of work on my desk, and avoided the break room. But they always discovered me, even if to simply point out that I was "starting to show" and would soon need to shop for maternity clothes. I really appreciated their observations, especially the ones about my increasing chest size.
My co-workers weren't the only undercover officers I ran into. Oh, no, the pregnancy police often were plain-clothed neighbors, churchgoers, and friends. They could spot a pregnancy "glow" from across town, and they were eager to pat a protruding belly in the cereal aisle of the grocery store.
I sometimes met up with them at 7-Eleven's Slurpee counter. "Don't have too many of these now. You don't want to end up with gestational diabetes." No, I sure didn't. I quickly reached for a smaller cup and went to the cashier to pay.
The pregnancy police weren't trying to scare me; they were merely providing a public service. After all, it was their duty to warn me about the harmful effects of caffeine, the risks of gestational diabetes, and off-limits medications.
They didn't mean to annoy me when they rattled off their lists of "you shoulds." ("You should consider breastfeeding." "You should start looking for a pediatrician." "You should sign up for a birthing class.")
"How far along are you? Twenty weeks? You should be feeling some movement by now." But I hadn't, and their suppositions were making me even more nervous.
Recently, I met two girlfriends for lunch. We hadn't seen each other in ages. "You're really five months?" Lucy questioned. "Good grief! You hardly even look pregnant!" I knew she meant well, but her remark made me wonder if my baby was developing properly. Suddenly, I couldn't wait for my next obstetric appointment.
For the majority of our meal, my friends' badges remained hidden. We caught up on the statuses of high school classmates, gossiped about people in town, and laughed over stories from our teenage years.
But every once in a while, I would catch a knowing look in response to something I said about my pregnancy or plans for motherhood. Then, I stopped talking and smiled, realizing I was under surveillance. They asked me how many children I planned to have. "Three," I responded, confidently. I saw Lucy wink at Gretchen across the table. It was a gesture that said, "Let's wait and see how she feels after this first one."
Although sometimes annoying and occasionally intrusive, these comments come from people who truly care. My co-workers, friends, and neighbors just wish to share their experiences and impart their wisdom.
These women have knowledge that comes only from having conceived, delivered, and raised their own babies. I am a child-rearing novice and thus grateful for their advice, warnings, and suggestions. After all, it takes a village to raise a child, perhaps even to bring one to full term. And every village needs a police force.
As my baby grew, so did the list of suggestions from the pregnancy patrol. I was issued a warning for coffee drinking in the break room at work. "You really should switch to decaf," a concerned citizen offered. "Caffeine is not good for the baby. And remember, that brownie contains caffeine, too." I thanked her for the reminder and went on with my business.
A few weeks later, I came down with a terrible sinus infection and stayed out of work for two days. When I returned, I was swiftly subpoenaed to my department's meeting area. A panel of investigators wanted to know what was wrong. "Have you had a fever?" they asked. "How high was it? You know you can only take Tylenol, don't you?" I did know. But I thanked them for their concern anyway and returned to my desk.
Tired, nauseous, and congested, I did my best to fly beneath the radar of the pregnancy police. I walked quickly in the hallways, hid behind the piles of work on my desk, and avoided the break room. But they always discovered me, even if to simply point out that I was "starting to show" and would soon need to shop for maternity clothes. I really appreciated their observations, especially the ones about my increasing chest size.
My co-workers weren't the only undercover officers I ran into. Oh, no, the pregnancy police often were plain-clothed neighbors, churchgoers, and friends. They could spot a pregnancy "glow" from across town, and they were eager to pat a protruding belly in the cereal aisle of the grocery store.
I sometimes met up with them at 7-Eleven's Slurpee counter. "Don't have too many of these now. You don't want to end up with gestational diabetes." No, I sure didn't. I quickly reached for a smaller cup and went to the cashier to pay.
The pregnancy police weren't trying to scare me; they were merely providing a public service. After all, it was their duty to warn me about the harmful effects of caffeine, the risks of gestational diabetes, and off-limits medications.
They didn't mean to annoy me when they rattled off their lists of "you shoulds." ("You should consider breastfeeding." "You should start looking for a pediatrician." "You should sign up for a birthing class.")
"How far along are you? Twenty weeks? You should be feeling some movement by now." But I hadn't, and their suppositions were making me even more nervous.
Recently, I met two girlfriends for lunch. We hadn't seen each other in ages. "You're really five months?" Lucy questioned. "Good grief! You hardly even look pregnant!" I knew she meant well, but her remark made me wonder if my baby was developing properly. Suddenly, I couldn't wait for my next obstetric appointment.
For the majority of our meal, my friends' badges remained hidden. We caught up on the statuses of high school classmates, gossiped about people in town, and laughed over stories from our teenage years.
But every once in a while, I would catch a knowing look in response to something I said about my pregnancy or plans for motherhood. Then, I stopped talking and smiled, realizing I was under surveillance. They asked me how many children I planned to have. "Three," I responded, confidently. I saw Lucy wink at Gretchen across the table. It was a gesture that said, "Let's wait and see how she feels after this first one."
Although sometimes annoying and occasionally intrusive, these comments come from people who truly care. My co-workers, friends, and neighbors just wish to share their experiences and impart their wisdom.
These women have knowledge that comes only from having conceived, delivered, and raised their own babies. I am a child-rearing novice and thus grateful for their advice, warnings, and suggestions. After all, it takes a village to raise a child, perhaps even to bring one to full term. And every village needs a police force.
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