Instead, I do the polite thing and tell them I am having a boy. He is due November 11th. And that whatever choices I make will be private. Then I give the person my patented squinty-eyed smile to indicate that the conversation is finished. The whole thing is fucking exhausting too. I like to pretend I must be burning even more calories by enduring the process. As though for every foolish idiot who wants to “do the thing” (as I mentally call it), I have the opportunity to lose some calories by listening to them go on with their little narrative.

I just really don’t care what folks think, or what info they feel is crucial to impart. In fact, I want to get in my car as soon as possible, and GTFO of the public eye. I can see why some women shut themselves away for certain stages of pregnancy…though I imagine it might not have all been about personal choice. I would prefer to have this be a highly private experience.

But then the question I ask myself is: “if I want it to be a private experience, why do I write about it?” This is an excellent question. To my mind, there is distance in the written word. I can think about what I want to say, how I want to frame my thoughts, and no one is watching my facial expression as to ensure I coo at the appropriate moments or smile where appropriate. Maybe a lack of pep is the issue? I’m not chipper enough? Chipper is tough to fake.

What the fuck, people? Not everyone is into the expressive-thing. It’s not the end of the world. We are excited, but it just looks different: not gushy, not squishy, just mellow, relaxed, maybe a bit more reserved. Just treat us like Canadians.

(photo: Tepikina Nastya/ Shutterstock)