Hands off my belly!

It's happened -- the thing I always dreaded most and was forewarned about. My belly has been rubbed without my permission.

It was a friend, a tiny-boned, lithe little Frenchwoman I used to take yoga from. I've tried to detach from her recently because I discovered that she's one of these new-agey health people who started giving far too personal advice about my husband's physical health (there's nothing wrong with him) and my mental and emotional life. She tried to drag me to a meditation class run by a woman who does past life regression. I can't stand that kind of thing. And this weekend, while we hung out at the organic farm (the little hide-out for the few liberals in my area), she rubbed my belly while lecturing me about a book I absolutely have to read on Parageneology. Work that one out.

There is another woman in my regular yoga class who I know would love to feel up my little sproglet, but is too polite to ask. I'm grateful to her.

One thing that made me so ambivalent at the beginning of my pregnancy was the knowledge that the single most private thing in my life, what was going on in my body, was something that the whole world would soon be able to see and comment on. For an introvert, a very private person, it was a horrific prospect.

I'm trying to steel myself to it. To anyone who doesn't know I'm pregnant, I can still hide it if I want (almost six months and I've only gained three pounds?). I live in a place where people tend to thickness, if not chubbiness. And I've started not to mind if strangers do notice and comment, as long as they refrain from telling me how I'm feeling and what I should be doing.

What strikes me as funny is how being pregnant, especially visibly so, has further solidified my position on abortion. (Side note: this position is something I'm going to write about soon, as it's going through some evolutions through experiencing a wanted pregnancy.) My body, my sproglet, me. Hands off me.