Theory 2: Misery Loves Company

I have a theory (no, not the one about the DMV). First let me say that other mothers, particularly the ones who haven't been pregnant in quite some time, are yanking on my second-to-last nerve. Let's face it, mes petites peus, I like to bitch. I love it. Nothing makes me happier than to respond to an unobtrusive, "so, howya feelin'?" with a detailed description of every single ailment that currently befalls me. Don't wanna know about my intense, frustrating constipation--the kind that's so bad that I live in constant fear of hemmoroids? Then don't ask. Don't care to hear about my bloated stomach, increasing cellulite, or tension headaches? Run the other way when you see me in the hallway. Does me discussing my toxic gas, cry fests, or sore nipples bother you? Eh, well. You have to understand, my pre-pregnancy conversations centered around martinis, theme nights, and dashing around downtown. Forgive me if my self-edit button and conversational apptitude have suffered in the wake of intense social calendar upheaval.

So anyway, back to my theory. The question/answer session described above does, in fact, have a point. It's that the people you'd think would be most sympathetic to your plight, namely women with children, are generally the first the run, tail between legs, from any pregnancy conversation (my mom is excluded from this unfair generalization, but she and I are very similar creatures). It's almost like I shouldn't dare complain about this "miracle," that to think of it as anything less than a beautiful experience, is an affront to motherhood. If I even begin to mention feeling a little vomity or horomonal, here come the disapproving looks and sideway glances. Flarva, flarva, flarva.

God, two paragraphs and still no theory. Forgive my extensive background--main point starts here, and this serves primarily as a missive to my childless friends. Do not let them fool you! Pregnancy, for the majority of us, isn't fun. It's not all warm fuzzies and hot chocolate and freakin' rainbows. You wanna know what it is? A sickness. Doesn't feel like a symbiotic relationship to me, not one bit. Now, don't send me hate mail about what a terrible person I am. First of all, I already know that. Secondly, thinking pregnancy is shite to be barely tolerated doesn't make me a baby hater, commie, or militant feminist. So shut your cake hole.

The reason, I reason, so many women talk about how lovely an experience pregnancy is....Well, chickens, here's the kicker: Because if they told the truth, NO ONE ELSE WOULD CHOOSE TO SUFFER WITH THEM. I can see it now. They all talk a big game, but they're snickering inside with evil glee when a girlfriend gets knocked up. I'll do the same, except I'll do it outloud. Mark my words.