So, we’re not even out of the pregnancy closet yet – the great reckoning will begin Nov 11, Remembrance Day [I’m sure there’s some profound, unintended, significance in that] and continue throughout the following week – and I’m already invited to a Mommy Group.
Only the following people [other than you, dear blog-readers] are actually officially aware of the pregnancy: Mr. Q, my doctor, my yoga instructor, my two supervisors. That’s it. Whatever it may be that friends, family and co-workers suspect, they have absolutely no proof.
As it turns out, my yoga instructor and I are similarly afflicted and she has just begun attending a quasi-regular gathering of Those Who Are-in-the-Process or Have-Recently Procreated. And so, I’m invited.
And it’s okay. Other than my yoga teacher, I know none of these people. I find it highly unlikely that any info will worm its way back to my mother after one afternoon of appys and nappys.
That doesn’t alleviate the anxiety of the looming divulgence – or, as I prefer: The Day Everyone Will Lose It. Okay, maybe not everyone. Co-workers and friends will be fine; they’ll be ever-so congratulatory and a little extra helpful [maybe] and then move on. Family, however, will freak. I am entirely dreading the impending freak. It will be big. It will be unbelievably lengthy. It will be all consuming.
I will have to set ground rules. I just don’t know what they are yet. Hormonally, and only if truly necessary, I’m likely entitled have one little hissy fit and get away with it. But, that’s a last ditch effort to be used sparingly. I’d much rather not let things get to the point where such vulgar means of setting boundaries are required.
Forget bellies and birthing. Maybe, this weekend, the Mommy Group will have some insider tips on raising well-balanced grandparents. Either that, or we’ll call in Nanny 911.