A Message to the Public

I'm babysitting the wee one today, and this morning we walked down to the grocery store to pick up something for lunch. Mind you I'm in my nanny-wear, which looks like mommy-wear, that is, a t-shirt, track pants, sneakers, hair in ponytail, no makeup, and I'm pushing a stroller.

Checker: "That's three eighty-three."
Me: "Okay, I have three pennies."
Checker: (peering at baby, then at me): "Is that your baby?"
Me: "No."
Checker: "Oh, because I was going to say, wow, that was fast!"
Me: (Oh, no she did not...where the fuck are those pennies?)
Checker: "How far along are you?"
Me: (Oh, for crying out loud.) "Four months."
Checker: "Congratulations."
Me: "Yeah."

Uh, hello? Yeah, I'm not pregnant. I have some curves, one of which happens to be on my belly. But come on. This woman is officially on my shit list. So my message to the public is: Within reason, what a woman does with her ovaries is between her, her sperm donor and her doctor. If a woman wants to walk around with a baby and no ring, it's none of your business. If a woman wants to have children in rapid succession, it's none of your business. And do not, under any circumstances, ever assume a woman is pregnant unless she's wearing a neon t-shirt with "There's a fetus in here! I'm making it your business! Please comment on this fact!!" splashed across the front.

Women: has this ever happened to you?
cross-posted.

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