Pregnancy Zen

When I told my best friend that I was pregnant she advised me to make the most of any attention I’d get (seats being surrendered, doors held open and the like), as when the baby was born, people would be so enraptured by the bundle of joy that they’d never look twice at me again.
In actual fact people’s baby obsession started as soon as my bump became visible. As my tummy grew week by week, I began to realise what it’s like to have big boobs with people no longer making eye contact but directing their gaze lower down. My bump also seemed to license a commentary on my body that for some reason is acceptable if you’re pregnant but totally rude if not. Delete as appropriate: “Isn’t your bump/butt/boobs/little finger ever so fat/neat/huge/pointy!” No matter what the comment was, it was often accompanied by knowing looks and dire warnings about the last trimester (“Wait until the last month -you’ll be so much more huger/heavier/fatter then!”) and in case that wasn’t scary enough, about subsequent pregnancies (“Well you’re grand now, but you’ll be so much fatter/huger/etc etc for the second.”)
And then there was the touching. I had heard rumours about this before falling pregnant and being protective of my personal space I anticipated that my instinct would be to resurrect my Taekwondo skills and swat the offender away if anyone attempted to touch my tummy. Strangely, as my belly became a magnet to be touched and rubbed (even before a bump was noticeable), I didn’t have the heart to rebuff their advances. Maybe it was due to hormones but people’s faces softened as they went in for the belly touch, as if they were patting a cute little kitten. By month nine I accepted my lot and felt like a lucky Buddha.
Now that Baby D is no longer a bump and is here in the flesh I discovered that my friend was right; the attention has totally shifted and now I’m barely noticed. So much so that I could probably shave my head and dress like a Hare Krishna and my Mother wouldn’t bat an eyelid if Baby D were in my arms.
Of course what my friend neglected to add was that most days I sport bags under my eyes that would warrant additional charges if I were to fly on Ryanair and the nearest I get to accessorising my wardrobe is a sticky mix of milk and dribble trailing down my shoulder. So being ignored, I don’t mind at all!