I just eat that stuff up

"Oh, you have the perfect little baby bump," said the woman behind the counter of our neighborhood put-yourself-in-debt-to-buy-dog-food store. She was, maybe, 26 years old. The slightly older woman next to her concurred.

"You look so great!"

I thought they were going to reach over the counter and caress my belly. Like the grandparents in the "She's gotten her boobies" scene in Sixteen Candles. But seeing as they worked in a high end pet supply store, I'm sure they knew better than to reach out and touch an irrational animal without asking permission first. Hands get bitten that way.

"When's the baby due?"

"In about five weeks," I replied.

And then I waited for it.

3... 2... 1...

"Five weeks? But you're so small!" she practically screamed.

"I'm not that small now and I'm not pregnant," said the other woman.

I hear this nearly every time I go out of the house. Do I mind perfect strangers telling me how great they think I look?

What do you think?

I freaking LOVE it.

Especially since I feel like I'm smuggling a beach ball under my shirt.

I like my baby bump... for the most part. It's cute, it's round, and it hasn't taken over my thighs or ass too much. It sticks out proudly as if to say I am PREGNANT. Huzzah! Worship me for I am making life.

There are those times late at night when there's no one around except me and Mr. C and I can really be my miserable self when I start cracking tug boat jokes or referring to myself as "the blimp who ate Boston". But overall, I feel I can say with only the slightest bit of pride and vanity that I make pregnancy look good.

(Okay, maybe a little more than just the slightest bit. Sue me.)

In fact, if my pregnancies weren't so heinous I'd be pregnant all the time. Normally I don't get a fraction of the compliments I do when I'm pregnant. Let's get knocked up again! Just so grandmotherly types can stop me at Target and look at my stomach longingly!

Of course, there's the sticky little situation about having lots of screaming babies running around and that ain't happening.

"I hope I look that good when I finally get pregnant," the young woman continued, sighing and looking at my bump hungrily.

And that's when I start to get uncomfortable. As a woman who can't take a compliment to save her life, I'm getting pretty good about accepting them about my pregnant belly. It feels like a separate entity anyway - like it's not really me but something I threw on that day. Maybe something manufactured by 5 year old children in China. Oh this old thing? Aw, go'awn - but when women, and there have been many, say something like "I hope I look as good as you do when I'm pregnant" I'm torn as to whether I should tell them about my struggles with hyperemesis or just keep my big yap shut. The constant morning sickness, the visits to the ER, the 9 month struggle over medication and maintaining that always below the surface but never full blown nausea after month five with the aid of said medication. I don't want to scare the poor girls.

I have mentioned it as a cautionary tale to a few woman - You don't want to be like me, girls. You don't want to be puking your guts up 24/7 for three months and then be a slave to a pill or two every day for the rest of the nine months, living in fear that the insurance company will just decide to stop approving your claims. Even if it does mean that after you have things under control you too can have a steady diet of Twinkies and eat an entire tub of Gouda cheese spread in one sitting because you're playing catch-up with your weight. But then I see their faces fall and then turn into looks of disgust and horror and I realize that maybe I went just a smidge too far.

I don't share my story with strangers very much anymore. The awkwardness is just not worth it.

Besides, does it matter why I'm this size? Maybe I just take really good care of myself and I'm not eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's after each meal. As far as you know.

There's very little to enjoy about the third trimester, between the swelling, the pain, the exhaustion. I may at least enjoy what I can until this baby comes and strangers go from telling me how great I look to looking at my puffy red eyes and spit-up stained clothing with pity.

Yes sir, I'm going to soak up the compliments now. I'm making a baby here, for chrissake. I'll take it where I can get it. With a side of Girl Scout cookies and an entire jar of pickles, please.

Oh, and another tub of cheese spread.