I am not one of those cute pregnant women who, from behind, you can’t even tell are pregnant.  I am one of those women who got asked when I’m due three months before I actually conceived.  Neighbors I’d meet in my elevator would ask my due date, look me up and down, and then remark in horror “But that’s still four months away!” My friends suggested that perhaps dressing like an actual expecting woman would make me feel better.

I had reached a point where the only clothes that fit me were my Patrick Swayze “Double Deuce” t-shirt (which my husband requested I stop wearing to bed because it made his dreams uncomfortable) and a shirt my sister-in-law got me that says “Does This Baby Make Me Look Fat?”  Neither option is appropriate to wear to work.  Or a social event.  It was time to explore my options.

I find it very hard to spend money on things I will only use for a short amount of time (snack foods and gym membership notwithstanding).  Ideally I’d love to purchase cute non-maternity clothes that I could continue to wear post-baby.  And considering my pre-baby style could best be described as “casual casualness,” how hard could it be?

In a fit of self-denial, I stumbled in to Forever 21.  This place had some nice maxi-dresses that, on me, made excellent maternity t-shirts.  However, I was starting to feel like a bull in a china shop.  I needed to head to a more welcoming place, a place with crackers and water, and the only free bathroom in Midtown…

Destination: Maternity!   After prolonging the inevitable, it was time to buy maternity pants.  For the past few weeks, I’d been pulling a move called the “Thanksgiving” (leaving my pants unbuttoned and wearing a long t-shirt over it), and the one pair of maternity pants I had from my previous pregnancy was worn down in the thighs (my husband informed me that, contrary to popular belief, crotchless maternity pants were not hot).

The dressing rooms came equipped with a fake pregnancy bump to simulate the fit of pants when you’re farther along (although I preferred putting the fake bump under my chin to see how clothes would fit me if I had a goiter).  The 22-year old male dressing room attendant informed me the $300 jeans I was trying on made me look “fabulous in all the right ways,” which I interpreted to mean “25 lbs lighter and a head-turner at the local discothèque.” On further inspection, I think he was definitely trying to up-sell me. So I purchased the $30 jeans, which had the designer’s signature stitched over the back pocket, Cabbage-Patch style, and ended two inches above my socks.

Armed with my new purchases and a new confidence, I walked past the Rosie Pope line, and the heels-clad Heidi Klum cut-out.  I ignored the skinny jeans with tummy panels, the empire-waisted halter tops, and the wide-toed stiletto boots.  I returned home, put on my jogging pants and my husband’s Superman hoodie, and headed out for a night on the town.

The Most Ridiculous Questions That Men Ask Expecting Women

Q: Why do women want babies?

A:  The answer to that question is threefold:  To have someone to take care of us when we’re old and incontinent.  To have someone to wear our clothes when they suddenly come back in style in 20 years.  And to clean the chimney.  It’s a narrow space, and we’re too damn big to fit up there.

Q: Why do you have to wait three months before telling people about the pregnancy?

A: It is standard to wait three months so that the woman can enjoy an occasional beer at a barbecue without being shamed.

Q: Does taking a giant dump feel the same as delivering a baby?

A: Yes it does.  Especially if your bowel movement is surgically removed through a hole in your abdomen.

Q: Will your boobs get bigger when you get pregnant?

A: Yes, they will.  But then they will get small again when they are drained by a hungry succubus.

Q: How can you get a baby to stop crying?

A: If you find out the answer to this question, please let me know.  It is 3am, and I am running out of animals that Old MacDonald has on his farm.

8:00pm:  Arrive at New Years party.  Greeted by 20 people who each, in turn, ask me how I’m feeling.

8:30 pm: Consume a brick of fudge that was meant to feed entirety of party.

8:32 pm: Regret said consumption of fudge as right leg begins to twitch.

9:00 pm: Begin obligatory designated driver duties by picking up people from train station.

9:20 pm: After 21^st person asks me how I’m feeling, animatedly fill them in on my constipation issues.

9:40 pm: Notice people have stopped talking to me.

10:00 pm: Sing a horrible karaoke rendition of  “I’m So Excited” that I can’t blame on alcohol consumption.

10:30 pm: Have imaginary conversation with unborn child, where I remind her of all the sacrifices I made for her.

10:32 pm: Ask baby if she would mind if I had one teensy, tiny glass of wine.  She responds by kneeing me in the spleen.

11:20 pm: Drunk acquaintance puts her hands on my stomach and swears she can feel baby kicking.  I explain that, in fact, it is my foot kicking her, and not the fetus.  She does not take hint.

11:45 pm: Fill my champagne glass with sparkling cider for the New Year’s toast.

11:46 pm: Secretly fill as many glasses as possible with sparkling cider so others will feel my sober pain.

12:00 am: As people scream “Happy New Year!” and blow on noisemakers and trumpets, unborn child recoils from noise by kicking her way through my ribcage.

12:20 am: Drop off people at train station.  While waiting, notice a piece of fudge wedged in my cleavage, which I devour eagerly.

12:35 am: Fall asleep under a pile of coats.

2:20 am: Husband wakes me so I can drive us home.

Like any newly-knocked-up woman on a rare night out, I find myself fielding the same questions over and over.

1.)   Do you know what you’re having?

The most common b.s. answer to this question is “We don’t care what gender, as long as the baby is healthy.” You always have a preference, even if you don’t know you do.  Maybe you think boys love their mothers more.  Or you really don’t want to explain menstruation down the road.  The next thing you know, you’re whipping out your sonogram pictures to strangers, proudly showing off your developing baby’s lady parts (which my husband begged me to stop calling the “money shot.”)

2.)   When are you due?

Sometimes your child will share a birthday with a special event, for instance: I was born on the same day as Malcolm X’s assassination.  My daughter, on the other hand, was born on the same day as a wedding I was planning on attending.

3.)   Do you have any cravings?

Why yes, I do.  I crave sailing lessons.  Sometimes, late at night, I’ll have a strong craving for political debate, so I’ll make my husband put on C-SPAN.  Edible cravings, you say?  Occasionally I’ll have a penchant for castor oil, right out of the bottle.  The other day I found myself gnawing on a charcoal briquette.  Pregnancy cravings are so difficult.

4.)   Are you excited/ scared / nervous?

I am all these things, at all times.  Sometimes, I am so excited,  I get scared that I’m not nervous enough.  Or I’m nervous that my excitement will scare me.

5.)   So, how are you feeling?

Where do I begin?  Do I start with the heartburn and digestive issues?  Or the fact my extremities are swollen like the villain at the end of “Big Trouble in Little China” (right before he exploded)?  Or the fact that I am hugging the toilet more than a frat boy during rush week?  Wait, where are you going?  I thought you wanted to know how I…ohhhh.  You were just making small talk with me at a holiday party.

In that case, I’m feeling great.

Dear Straphangers,

I apologize to all the people who are offended by my pregnancy.  You are happy to finally get a seat on the rush-hour train, and then I come waddling in with my Buick-sized uterus and my swollen feet of entitlement.  You shoot me resentful glances as I try to maneuver around the immovable passengers standing in front of the train doors.  You raise your newspapers to half-mast in order to block the sight of my unwieldiness.  You become fascinated with finding a song on your iPhone, finding something in your bag, or pretending to sleep.  After all, if you can’t see me, then you won’t feel any shame for staying put.

Now, why don’t I just ask someone for a seat, if I need one so badly.   I tried that, once.  A man beat me to an empty seat, and when I explained that I was 7 months pregnant and pretty tired, he raised up his pants leg to show me he had a prosthetic leg.  Before getting up and giving me his seat.  Which I took, because I am a jerk.

“I didn’t realize you’re pregnant,” explain a few genuinely sorry people who offer me their seats one stop before I need to get off the train.  I get it.  It’s hard to tell if my belly is filled with baby, or mini-muffins.  I will give you a hint: it’s both.

Thank you, sir, for placing your backpack on the seat I was about to sit in.  I know your backpack has had a rough day, what with having to snuggle on your sweaty back all day, and by night, in some dive bar stuffed under a beer-pong table.  But it is hard to watch your backpack sit like a king while I cling to and flop around the subway pole like a hippo moonlighting as an exotic dancer.

And to the few (usually older) women who offer me their seats, along with unsolicited advice and commentary, thank you for the seat.  No, I am not carrying twins, and yes, I am sure.  I am indeed aware of how much longer I need to gestate, and how big I am.  No, I have no other means of getting to work, what with my private chauffeur out on maternity leave, and my helipad on the fritz.  I love it when random acts of kindness come with heaping sides of awkwardness.

Dear, dear, fellow straphangers, we are in this together.  We all have to get to work; we all want a peaceful journey on that marvelous underground fairytale of a subway.  Let’s make a deal:  if, for the duration of my pregnancy, you offer me your seat on the train, I promise to make my children get up and offer you their seat on the inevitable day when you too are unable to stand.

Because you were kicked in the legs repeatedly for being a jerk.

Love, Ali

I have a whopping secret.  The motherload of juicy gossip.  It is single-handedly the most important thing to happen to me and will change my life in every way that is important.  It is all I think about, every moment of every day.  And I CAN’T…TELL…ANYONE.

People in my life have been waiting a while for me to share this news. After all, I have been married for more than 6 months, am under the age of 45, and have no outward loathing toward small children.  At meals, they listen intently to see what I order.  At parties, they stare at my hand to see if I am holding a drink.  They glance at my midsection looking for tell-tale bloat or alien-like movement.

Now, I understand the reasons behind waiting three months to disclose a pregnancy.  But as a result of my secrecy, I find myself creating horrible webs of lies to avoid detection.  “I’m not drinking…because…I am taking medication.  What for?  Oh, I hurt my back in a car accident.  I have no car?  Righhhht…I borrowed it from my friend.  She can’t drive because she is pregnant.  I’m totally not, though.”

My husband brings me decoy drinks: orange juice instead of screwdrivers.  A friend of mine, after mocking the fact that I have the same drink choice as a college freshman, insisted on taking a swig.  I was convinced my cover was blown.  Instead, she smacks her lips a few times, before shaking her head: “They really make weak-as-piss drinks here, huh.”

I use the excuse of having eaten “bad sushi” to explain away my perpetually queasy stomach. To avoid doing shots.  To get out of having to eat more sushi. [My dad asked “Didn’t you have this bad sushi two weeks ago?”]

Since the only person I can discuss this with is my husband, we find ourselves talking about it ad nauseum.

Me: “Did you know that our baby now has a pituitary gland?  And is the size of a poppy seed?  And has no nostrils yet?”

Husband: [volume on Giants game slowly getting louder] “Mmm.  You sure you don’t have any friends you want to share this with?”

And because I can’t disclose this most exciting of news to my closest friends and family, I find myself letting it slip to virtual strangers.  The security agent running the body scan at the airport.  The cashier ringing up my lunch consisting of four frozen pizzas.  Yesterday, the woman giving me a pedicure asked me to pick a color for my nails. I announced to her: “I chose ‘Baby Pink’,  for obvious reasons.”  And she smiles demurely and asks me if I want my cuticles cut.

Which I do.

Because I’m pregnant.

So, other than not drinking weed killer or saline solution, I needed to know what other foods and beverages to stay away from while pregnant.  I decided to invite over my friend Lori*, who has had three kids and thusly considers herself a pre-natal nutritional expert.  She showed up with a Power Point.

*name changed to hide the fact that I don’t really have any friends.

Lori: So, I’m sure you already know:  no alcohol.

Me: My doctor says it’s okay to have a glass of wine a day.

Lori: A week.

Me: Ohhhhh.  Are you sure?  My doctor seems to think it’s good for calming my nerves, which is important to do while pregnant.

Lori:  Your doctor sounds insane.  Next up: types of fish to avoid.  Stay away from fish high in mercury, like king mackerel, shark, or tilefish.

Me:  Oh man!  I love tilefish!

Lori:  Really?

Me:  No.  What the hell is a tilefish? Who cares?  Next!

Lori:  No sushi.

Me: Sashimi?

Lori: ‘Fraid not.

Me:  Can I order the veggie rolls?

Lori:  Ugh, would you want to?

Me:  No.  What about ceviche?

Lori:  Oh, come on.

Me:  What’s wrong with ceviche?  It’s just raw seafood marinated in…[pause]. Okay, no ceviche.

Lori:  No deli meats, no hot dogs…

Me:  Not even street hot dogs?

Lori: They stew them all day in their own filth.  Absolutely not.

Me:  My doctor says I can have them in moderation.

Lori:  Your doctor sounds like a crackpot.  You’d get better pre-natal advice from Google MDs.  Oh, and no soft cheeses.  No brie, no Camembert, no goat cheese…

Me:  What about Cheese Whiz?

Lori:  I’m pretty sure that is not real cheese.

Me:  Whew.  At least I have something to spread on my tilefish sandwiches.

Lori:  [ignoring me] And no raw eggs.

Me:  Sigh…I have to cook my eggs now, like a savage?  And my fish.  And my red meat.  Pregnancy blows.

Lori:  You are a very lazy cook.

Me:  What kind of world is it where we’re encouraged to eat our own placentas, but can’t have ceviche?

Lori:  Ceviche is gross.  I have to go home now to make sure my husband doesn’t feed the kids Pop Tarts for dinner.  Good luck!

Wondering when your exact due date is?  I have discovered a secret formula for calculating the day of your baby’s birth:

Take the date of your last period, add 40 weeks.  If you can’t remember it, try to remember the date of the last fight you had with your husband (it’s probably around then).

Subtract two weeks if you are having twins.

Add two weeks if you are known for being chronically late.  And an extra one if you are 35 weeks pregnant and still haven’t found a doctor who “supports your birth plan.”

Add another week if you like to over-think things.  On second thought, maybe subtract a week.  No, wait…definitely add one.

Subtract a week and a half if your feet are really swollen and you can’t wait to get this baby out of you.

Subtract three days if your husband asked that your impending labor not “ruin St. Patrick’s Day” for him.

Add a week if you won tickets to a Bon Jovi concert on your actual due date, and you really, really want to attend.

Add another week if your sister requested that you not have your baby on her birthday.

Congratulations; you have successfully calculated your exact due date.  Your baby will arrive sometime within six weeks before or after that date.  So happy planning!

I don’t understand how someone can not know they are pregnant. There is probably a happy medium between knowing the second your embryo splits, and giving birth on a toilet in a Sbarros. But to have no idea makes no sense. I am possibly the person least attuned to my own body. I once walked around for a week with my shoulder twisted behind my neck before a stranger on the bus pointed out that it was probably dislocated. Well into my 30s, I still get surprised by my period. And yet I knew I was pregnant pretty soon after it happened. Here were some of my clues:

1.) I began scarfing down french fries and Cool Whip like it was my job.
2.) I sobbed uncontrollably at the Nationwide commercial where the man thinks his car is a giant baby.
3.) My father asked if I’d stopped going to the gym.
4.) Naturally, I had just purchased a case of wine.
5.) The five tests I took all said “pregnant.”

To be fair, I kept taking the tests because I liked seeing the word “pregnant.”

In four months, ask me again how I feel about that word.