"You`re carrying so well; must be a girl," my normally reserved co-worker, a father of five, said as his hand reached out and patted my bump.
"Um, thanks. Yes, I am," I hesitantly responded, unsure of how to handle this delicate situation.
A few days later the palm of my hard-driving boss snaked toward me, as she declared she was going to touch my "belly baby" and make a wish.
"Maybe now I`ll meet a great guy, settle down and have a baby, too," she half-whispered as if I were some kind of life-size lucky charm.
The following week I came home from work and ran into my next-door neighbor. We were engaging in our usual light chitchat, when I started feeling tired.
"I`m going to grab a nap," I told her.
"Well, get all the rest you can now - `cause you`ll get no sleep when the baby comes," she volunteered.
"Will do," I said.
One more thing: "Make sure you rub oil on your stomach to avoid stretch marks," she advised, pressing her hand right smack on my stomach, as if to emphasize her point.
"Oh. Okay. I`ll look into it. Thanks for the tip," I said as I beat a hasty retreat to my apartment.
I`d always thought of myself as an empowered woman with strong personal boundaries, but as a pregnant woman I simply registered as someone anyone could just reach out and touch.
The entitlement of others toward my body was hard to take.
I fervently believe that we house our energy in our core - or our stomachs. That`s what grounds us, and it`s also where we can hold other people`s energy. In fact, the stomach is such a spiritually sensitive area that massage therapists are trained to ask permission before they lay their hands on it.
All this "flash belly rubbing," as I liked to call it, was wearing on me, making me feel targeted, vulnerable and grumpy.
I was fed up, but I was also too nervous to tell people to back off. (What if they thought I was a hormonal witch?)
So I subtly started to protect myself. When someone looked as if they were moving toward me, I`d very quickly step back while placing one hand on my belly.
And still the comments (and flash belly rub attempts) continued.
"Look, you`re doing the pregnancy waddle - like a Weeble Wobble, it`s so cute," exclaimed a work colleague.
"Ha-ha, I think you told me that last week," I replied, doing a practiced step and slide away.
"Make sure you drink enough water so you don`t faint," said my mother`s friend, her errant hand already poised to strike. Thinking quickly, I coughed and sniffled, as if dealing with the onslaught of a bad cold, and she backed off.
"What is your cup size now? You`re probably a G," said the waitress at my favorite diner, checking out my mountainous bosom.
It was the last straw. I put my hand on my belly just as she extended her hand out. It landed on top of mine.
"I don`t know my cup size, but I love being pregnant. Please don`t touch my stomach. I don`t like it," I said in a calm manner that belied the turmoil within.
I was surprised to see her smile.
"I get it," she murmured. I felt her briefly squeeze my hand as if we were co-conspirators, before she lifted it away. "I used to hate it when people tried to touch my tummy, too."
"Thank you, for understanding," I told her, rubbing my belly in soothing circles.
Then despite the baby weight I`d gained, I felt lighter, as I finally expelled the breath I didn`t realize I`d been holding in since I`d started showing.
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