Mexican Domestic Goddess

Don't Ask Me If I'm Pregnant

Jacqui Skemp18 Comments
If you've ever spent significant time in Mexico, and you are a woman, you might find that some men see it as totally acceptable to, um, catcall. While I find it disrespectful now, there was a time when the catcalls were oddly affirming. It confirmed that I was attractive, pretty, whatever. When I was a young girl, probably about 13 or so, I was walking around my cousins neighborhood and a group of young men our age started whistling at us. And then one of them yelled (in Spanish) "I like the chubby one!" I knew exactly who they were talking about and I was mortified. What's really stupid is that I wasn't even that chubby! I was not incredibly thin, but I definitely wasn't chubby. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I wanted to be invisible.

Three months ago I was having some fabric cut at a craft store and the woman helping me was going through my fabric selections and commenting on how cute they were. She asked if they were for a baby. I said I was working on some projects for my nearly one year old son and a few of my girlfriends babies. I didn't have Iggy with me, so maybe she was confused, or didn't have her coffee that morning, or maybe she had mush for a brain. She leaned over the counter and said "I couldn't tell until you turned to the side but now I see". "See what?" I asked her. "You know" she said as she motioned the universal baby bump motion. Um, hell no. I leaned back over the counter and tried to tell her that I was not pregnant but she kept going on about how sweet it was to make things for a new baby and asked how many months along I was. I just stared at her. I shook my head. I had no words. I'm usually so good with comebacks but I was floored. I didn't want to make a scene so I fumbled around with my phone until she was done. I grabbed my fabric, paid for it, and sat in my car and cried.

Since then I've had multiple people ask me if I was pregnant. And every time it happens I just have no idea what to say other than "no. I'm not pregnant".

I can tell you this, though, every time it happens I want to crawl in a hole and die. For about two seconds. Then I feel sorry for them. And then I get pissed. And then I run. At least, that's what I've been doing for these last three months.

I have not been blessed with a body that bounces back to it's pre-baby size four months postpartum.  And I would gladly trade a lot of loose skin for the tire that currently hangs around my midsection. But you know what? As I pack for the next five days I will be spending on a warm Mexican beach with twenty of my family members I'm not going to worry about what my body looks like in a swimsuit. I'm going to take Simcha's advice and "stay in the damn water"

So unless I explicitly tell you, and announce it over all my favorite social media outlets that I am pregnant, please, please, please do not ask me if I'm pregnant. This rule probably applies to all women everywhere across all time. Forever and ever, amen. 

This post was inspired by Bonnie over at A Knotted Life and this post