After arriving at my parents' house yesterday, I removed my coat and my mother hung it in the hall closet. "How cute!" she said, looking at my ever-growing belly. "You're really moving up in the world!" Well, moving out might be more accurate.
Anyway, I responded that, yes, this bump is a-growin' and my shirts are getting too short. Moments later, she took another look at my stomach and said, "I hate to say this, but - "
"Don't even say this baby is going to be big."
". . . he might not be such a little guy after all . . . . " The "little guy" assumption comes from my 20-week ultrasound when his weight put him in the 29th percentile.
A few hours later, when Brad arrived after putting the first coat of stain on our newly sanded hallway floor (yes, we are once again displaced, roaming around the 'burbs of Pittsburgh, transient-like), I reported my mother's comments to him. He chuckled.
"Well, it's just that it's all in front," she said in defense. "It's not anywhere else."
I made a face at her.
"You're just such a small person, so maybe it's not actually that big, it just looks big on you."
"I'm just saying."
It's too late, Mom. It's way too late: you've already put the terror of a 9 lb. baby into my head.