You Might Be Pregnant If . . .

You know Jeff Foxworthy’s “You might be a redneck if….” jokes? You know, the ones that go something like, “You might be a redneck if . . . you think a family reunion is a good place to pick up chicks”? Well, I have compiled a list of “You might be pregnant if . . .” observations, based on these past 7+ months of prenatal bliss. For what they’re worth: You might be pregnant if . . . You scope out online the available dining options at the airport 8 hours before your flight so you can decide between Subway and Panda Express before you arrive. You use paper clips as fashion accessories to keep your pants closed. You suggest to your boss moving your office to the bathroom—or at least getting your own stall. You develop an uncontrollable hatred for the Nordstrom maternity models. You find yourself talking to the fetus in what seems to you to be a perfectly logical way but that makes you appear like a schizophrenic nut to everyone else. You blame your unborn child for taking lunch early. You find your tolerance for screaming toddlers in public places and overall questionable parenting has skyrocketed. After all, that potentially crappy mother will be you in a matter of months. You seriously contemplate if all of the second-hand smoke and exhaust fumes at the metro station have negated the positive effects of giving up alcohol. You hate the sound of your own voice when you ask the waitress if the cheese is pasteurized and if she could make sure the fish or beef is cooked all the way through. You consider pickles—and lots of them—to be a legitimate source of vegetables. You surf through maternity-wear websites and wonder if these clothing designers realize that you’ll be spending the next several months in the workplace, not seated in a rocking chair while contemplatively rubbing your stomach. You have a newfound respect for your shoes—those loyal fashion staples—that still fit after everything else in your closet has betrayed you. You wonder if cleaning products are hazardous enough to get out of doing housework. You barely control the urge to punch the person who refers to your upcoming maternity leave as a “vacation.” You steal glances at other people’s babies and hope that your kid also comes out of the oven looking human. You start recording parenting-related episodes of Dr. Phil. You find yourself constantly amazed that the little person developing inside of you was made by you and the one you love—and that she’s all yours.