The end is in sight.  I can reach for it, count down in weeks instead of months without the number (and the time it represents) scaring me.  But before I get there, I might just go out of my mind first. 

You see I’m bored of talking about my pregnancy.  It’s like those first few days after telling people, when you tired of the same old spiel: this is my due date, no we don’t know what it is yet (I’m 12 weeks, not 20!), yes we’re excited and if you make me tell this story one more time I will scream.  In the end, I gave up telling people.  They’d hear along the grapevine (if they’d not already seen it on Facebook) and at least I might be a little more refreshed when I had to face those same questions again.

But now I can’t hide behind people’s lack of knowledge.  The bump announces my arrival and there’s no avoiding the fact that I’m hideously pregnant.  The questions have changed but the repetition’s remained the same.  It’s not so bad when you stay in the same place all the time.  People know that you’re having a boy, that it’s due in January, that the boy is excited to be a big brother.  But I don’t work in the same place all the time and so I keep getting asked those same questions over and over again.  I’ve returned to one of the corporate departments, the same one the Tyrant works in, the same one I visited in August and September.  The girls here know the answers to those questions; they’ve asked them twice before.  But still, it seems that I have to answer them again.  And again.  And again.

Now seeing as I have to endure these crazy questions, I thought I’d share some with you.  Maybe one of us can get a laugh from them.

‘How’s the baby?’  Alive.  Kicking.  To be honest, I don’t know.  The placenta sustains the baby, it’s not as if it gives me a direct line to his every thought.  A medical professional checks the bump over every few weeks, can find the heartbeat and measure to check he’s roughly the right side but they can’t ask the baby that question either.  You’ll just have to wait until I pop to find out the answer to that one.

‘You’re getting big, aren’t you?’  Or the other variation, at five months, was ‘oh my god you’re huge, you’re not going to be able to fit through the door soon.’  Thank you.  I know I’m getting bigger (or at least I can happily say that the bump is because I’ve put on very little in the way of weight myself).  That’s what pregnant women do, grow bigger, because they’re growing a human being in their belly, a human being that’s going to pop out at a weight in excess of 6lbs.  Then there’s ‘Are you sure you’re you’re not having twins?’  Yes, very sure.  Five scans have shown only one baby, the midwives and doctors have only ever found one heartbeat and my bump measures perfectly fine for a bump with one baby in it.  It’s not twins.

‘When are you going on maternity leave?’  The exact same date I told you the last two times.  Just before Christmas.  It’s not like Easter, the date doesn’t change each year.  And you asking all the time doesn’t make it happen any sooner.  And no, while we’re on the subject, I’m not leaving it a bit too late.  I’ve timed it perfectly to avoid going out of my mind with boredom before the boy breaks up on Christmas holidays and if the kid doesn’t pop out before the boy goes back to school, I don’t know what I’ll do to stop myself going crazy whilst I wait.  It’s a bit like being asked ‘when are you due?’ multiple times by the same person.  The same date as the last six times you asked.

‘Do you know what you’re having?’  A baby?  A puppy?  The creature from the black lagoon?  Yes I do know, it’s a boy.  The same as the last time you asked.  These things don’t often change.

I just hope I don’t go past my due date because that snark, I might just let it out by then.

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