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Proximity Warning Posting Date: Feb 27 2008 11:46AM If it’s Valentine’s Day at 4pm and you find yourself in the Shoppers Drug Mart sifting through the remnants of the Valentine’s Day cards in the hope of finding something that doesn’t feature a cartoon dog, a picture of a half-naked fireman or swirly writing with lots of references to your soul, it’s just a matter of time before you have personal space issues. With all the edgy men gathered around, pawing at anything that looks like a decent card, it’s practically a guarantee that some mouth-breathing desperado will start reading over your shoulder and nudging your elbow with his beer belly.
When that happens, most people recognize the social faux pas and back away.
Not so when you’re in the midst of the miracle that is having a baby.
There are many changes that happen when a woman gets pregnant. She starts wearing third-hand pants. Eating becomes an Olympic sport. When the new baby arrives, there are similar changes. Sleep patterns disintegrate. Whispering becomes normal conversational pitch. Charging the camera’s batteries is suddenly more important than taking a shower.
None of this is that surprising. You get warned about it all. What no one mentions, however, is how the process of procreation strips you of your entitlement to your personal space and privacy … not in an aggressive, get-out-of-my-way-I-need-a-Valentine’s-card kind of way, but rather in a I-share-in-your-joy-therefore-I-share-in-your-space kind of way.
I’m not sure which is better.
Imagine if we took behaviour that people seem to think is fine when dealing with a pregnant woman or a newborn baby, and transferred it onto, let’s say, a thirty-eight year old writer. Let’s see how this plays out …
“Hi Denise. Great to see you,” you say.
“Oh my gosh!” Denise stands back and stares at your belly. “Look at you. You are so round!”
“Uh, I’m a size 32.”
Denise reaches both hands out toward your belly-button. “I just have to touch it!”
“Get your hands of my abs, you tart!”
“You’re glowing.”
“You’re tickling me.”
A little while later, you’re in the waiting room at your doctor’s office when the man in the next chair with a baby looks at you. “You here for the first immunization too?”
“None of your business.”
“Really, you’re so cute. What are you? About two thousand weeks old?”
You’re pissed. “Easy, pal. I’m 1,984 weeks, if I’m a day.”
“Tell me, are your poops still bright yellow? Mine were green for a little while. I think I may be getting too much iron.”
On the way home from the doctor, you hit the grocery store where a woman stops to admire you while you shop for broccoli. “Oh aren’t you a cute one? You’re so pretty. Are you a boy or a girl?” You’re so stunned, you actually stand still as she tickles you under the chin. “Yes, yes, yes, yes. You are so chubby. Look at those cheeks, just look at those cheeks!”
“Do I know you, lady?”
“I have one at home about your age. Isn’t it just a miracle? Can you hold your head up yet?”
You pull out your car keys. “Listen toots. I drove myself here in my Audi, OK? I have control of my head.”
Then, as you wait in line at the check-out, you realize you have to pass a little gas, so you turn strategically toward the magazines, pretending to look at this week’s People and let loose a small and silent fart. Two seconds later, the guy waiting behind you leans over and says, “Oh aren’t you a stinky little monkey? What a stinky little monkey. Yes you are. Yes you are.”
Later on, after my diaper change, my friends and relatives start dropping by the house, making funny faces at me, saying slightly disturbing things four times in a row (“I just want to eat you, yes I do. I just want to eat you. I just want to eat you. I just want to eat you right up.”). Then they all start asking if they can hold me.
I say no. Being a baby is exhausting. |
