Where the “S” is for Slacker, of course. The next generation is still holding within my loins.
However, I have had: promising, though random, pains in my gut, back aches, crankiness alternating with weepiness and insomnia. Not all of this can be attributed to the heat as it has actually cooled down quite a bit since Monday. In fact, right now I am huddled under my favourite flannel sheet because the living room is so cool. I refuse to close the window – that would be like some kind of reproach. I wish to encourage the cool air.
This morning we head to our last pre-natal group appointment. Maybe the babies will send subliminal messages to our babby to vacate the premises post haste.
Yesterday I walked up to the Most Depressing Mall In the Universe (I can’t wait to do this walk not pregnant: it took me 45 minutes yesterday, whereas in my 2nd trimester it took me 25. Not pregnant it will probably be 10 minutes, tops) where I bought a piece of fabric to wear as a skirt and some watermelon. I walked around the mall with the other folks who shuffle (I was lapped several times by different old men with walkers) and then I needed a rest so I sat on a bench.
A woman sat next to me. She wore a long-sleeved, polyester shirt; white with big red flowers, tan walking shorts and a baseball cap that said “Prairie Malt” with short, grey hair tucked underneath it. She had deep wrinkles in her face, even and beautiful. She pointed at my barely covered belly.
“Bet you’ll be glad to get that out!”
I laughed, despite my bad mood.
“Do you know what you’re having?”
“No,” I said, “It’ll be a surprise.” Because, though redundant, it’s what I say. It’s what people expect to hear. It helps them with their next line, which is usually, “Oh, that’s good. It’s the biggest surprise of your life! There are so few true surprises these days.”
“Well, it’ll be a baby for sure,” she said.
Not once has someone said that to me. I have been oft-tempted to say something like: “Well I’m hoping for a puppy, but I think it’s probably a baby.” But I never have. Because I found out early in the game that We Don’t Joke About Our Pregnancies with Strangers. The Children Are Our Future. More Precious Than Coal. Etc.
“I’ve had three of my own,” she went on. I nodded.
“Actually, now I’m a great grandmother. My great grandaughter is 23 – she says she’d like to make me a great-great grandmother but I told her to wait and find the right man to marry first. No point making yourself miserable just so I can be a great-great grandmother.”
“True,” I said. She smiled.
“Had my 3 kids before I was 21,” she said, “then I was widowed so that was it for me. I was a grandmother before I was 40. It was great – I had lots of energy to be a grandmother. How old are you?”
“32.”
“That’s all right,” she said, “that’s a good age. But if you want to have 3 or 4 more, you should probably do that soon.”
“Hmmm,” I said, hoping my tone was polite.
“One of my granddaughters is having her first, at the age of 42! She’s awfully tired.”
“Well, yes,” I said.
She had a wide, honest smile. When she laughed, she threw her whole head back and slapped her knee with a heavily freckled hand. The baseball cap held steady.
We talked for 15 minutes. She told me that she refers to the mayor, the MLA and the MP for New Westminster collectively as “The boobsey twins.” She didn’t vote for any of them. “But they manipulated the elderly vote,” she explained, “and that will get you in in this city.” She also told me that she doesn’t think cars are solely responsible for global warming. “Look at all the people in the world, generating body heat,” she said. “Look at all the devices that create heat in the world. How can they blame only cars? Of course, I have 3 vehicles,” she said, a little sheepishly, “but I’m trying to get rid of two of them.”
She left me on the bench as she had to get to a doctor’s appointment. When I was at the bus stop on my way home a few minutes later, I saw her drive by in a gold Chevy minivan. I smiled again, thinking of our conversation. I’ve missed talking to strangers.
