Featured Story: Hilary

I have found that the mostly likely place to encounter unsolicited belly pats and comments from strangers is at Wal-Mart. There seems to be no other common denominator except for the fact that the socially incompetent thrive cruising the aisles buying underwear and milk. As I load my son into the shopping cart, the onslaught is almost instantaneous.

"It's a girl, right?"

"No, it's actually a boy," I reply.

"No, no, no, honey, it's a girl," replies the braless woman clad in her finest Lynard Skynard concert wear. And there's a part of me that wants to protest, but what would be the point? She clearly thinks her beer-buzzed intuition is far superior to, oh say, highly trained level two ultrasound technicians.

"Yeah, maybe so," I say as we pass. She huffs triumphantly and heads towards the pharmacy.

"Mija, you are having twins, no?" enter the Hispanic grandma, who here in South Texas garners the same respect as the Pope. You don't mess with Abuela. But she's touching me and accusing me of hiding a second fetus. This one is tricky.

"Actually, no it's just one," I manage a smile. I shift attempting to move her hand away, but she's suddenly three inches closer to my boob.

"Don't eat too much, mija, or the baby will never get out," she pats my son's cheek with a grin. Under her breath blesses him in Spanish as she shuffles away. Despite all that touching, Abuela is a good-hearted woman, and you can't dislike her. She is clearly genuinely concerned about my child being able to exit my body. I am more perplexed than angry. I mean, has she ever actually known someone whose baby never got out? Is there some woman wandering the streets with a five year old still lodged in her belly because she couldn't stay away from Ding Dongs and Cheetos?

As I move to pay, the woman in front of me looks at my son. I see her glance back and forth from my son to my belly as she unloads her cart. Her baby coos at me from the infant carrier in the front of her basket.

"How old is he?" she motions with her head towards my son.

"He's almost four," I reply, proudly looking at my boy.

"No," she sadly shakes her head,"they're too far apart." She then suddenly interrupts herself to shout-no SHRIEK- at a little boy sporting a cast who has gone behind the adjacent register, and if I'm not mistaken, was actively searching for the silent alarm. For some reason, after retrieving him, she feels compelled to launch into a diatribe about child spacing and explains to me I've simply waited too long. They will fight. They won't be friends. The older one is too set in his ways. "You shouldn't have waited so long," she laments.

I am too stunned to think of a reply. I know, though, what I wanted to say. "I hear ya, sister. If that last baby I'd been carrying hadn't gone off and died on us, it would have been sooooo much easier. And all that infertility stuff, wow, I mean, that totally jacked up the whole system. And the crazy thing is, all those years I couldn't have a baby I felt so incompetent and like I was doing it all wrong. Just when I finally felt normal, felt like I'd finally gotten it right, you, thank GOD, are here to tell me that I'm still doing it wrong. I guess we should just give this baby away to someone else, a better person, maybe like you, because apparently we are hopelessly SCREWED." But I am silent. I am numb as I watch her walk out into the parking lot. She searches for her keys while her son darts out into traffic. I want to laugh at her absurdity and cry at her unintentional cruelty.

I pay for my purchases, and kiss my son's head. He seems confused by the interaction, as he is wise beyond his years.

"Well, I like the baby, mommy."

"So do I, Boo, " and am surprised to find myself searching the exit for Abuela, and wondering if she'd give me a hug.



Hilary
mom to Tabor, who will be four August 9th
Due with my next miracle also on August 9th

The above is a compilation of comments I received from about 7-9 months of pregnancy.