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I'm a beauty editor turned freelance writer and stay-at-home mom (marissastapley.com/sageandlola.com). Most people think I'm funny, other people think I'm not and the odd person thinks I'm hilariously witty and should have my own show and bestselling book series. These people are either related to me, contractually bound to me, or my best friend. If a person walks past my kids on the street and doesn't give them a look that says, "Wow, those are some cute kids" I assume they're dead inside. I haven't bought a box of of plastic baggies since 2009, but I often steal them when I'm at my mom's house. I will never get over the fact that Gilmore Girls is no longer on television and that ASP didn't write the last season. I generally only cry when I'm alone. I take almost everything out on my husband, and he loves me anyway. Now that I don't go to an office every day, the number of pumps I own makes no sense. My daughter's favourite outfit is a pink batgirl costume and sometimes, she strokes my hair and says, "Mommy, I love you. You're so stylish and intelligent." My son's teacher recently thanked me for having him, because he's so awesome. That's a true story, and so are all of these.

Monday, January 28, 2013

Things you should probably not say to a pregnant woman. Or maybe you should. But in a nicer way.

Recently, I attended a clothing swap party with some neighbourhood friends. In attendance was a woman who was pregnant with her first child. (Incidentally, she tried on one of the shirts I had brought and it looked perfect as a maternity top which made me realize why I should never have bought it in the first place.)

At one point in the evening, I entered the kitchen just in time to hear the tail end of a conversation about how awful the postpartum period can be. "It just really sucks sometimes," said one experienced mom to the new-mom-to-be. "And no one tells you it sucks, so you're basically sitting there thinking, "what is wrong with me!? This sucks. Is it supposed to suck so bad?""

I was shocked. "Um," I said nervously. "This is her first baby. Maybe we shouldn't..." Tell the truth. That's what I was thinking: maybe we shouldn't tell the truth. It  might scare her. "Actually, nevermind," I said. "You're right. Sometimes, it sucks." I turned to the new-mom-to-be and sipped my wine, suddenly determined to give her the straight goods. I'm nothing if not honest, right? "Like, you keep waiting for that perfect feeling. That, "I am so happy, I have never been happier in my life," feeling, and while you DO have that,  on the first day or two when you're still a little delirious, well, after that--" 

And this is the point where I made that sound people make. You know, the one that's supposed to imitate the sound of a bomb dropping or a plane crashing. Kind of like: “Neeeeooooooooooooow.Psssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssh! BOOOOOOOOOM.”


I accompanied this with hand gestures meant to demonstrate a spectacular crash and burn. I looked around the room. "Am I right?"

The new-mom-to be stared at me in horror. I realized I had probably taken it a little far.

Well, at least now she knows what she might expect to experience—and if she doesn’t,  she can say to herself, "Hey, I feel so much better than everyone told me I was going to feel, especially that crazy woman at that party. If I see her on the street, I'm going to avoid her."

 

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