33 weeks pregnant. Seven weeks to go. Ish. Nothing like being pregnant in the Spring/Summer to showcase my pregnancy.

Temperature wise, I’m a hot sweaty pregnant lady. The other night I heave my belly toward Captain for snuggles. He’s been running hot since he was born. He reminisces,

“Do you remember when your feet used to be freezing?”

As soon as he would get into bed, I’d put both of my feet between his legs. Best part of my night.

“Yeah. They’ll be back.”

But for now we both roll apart from each other a sweaty mess.

So I’ve been walking around in public in a tank top and there’s no doubt I’m pregnant. The public has several different reactions to this.

Many people don’t notice. This is Boston and eye contact or looking anywhere except straight in front of you is seen as odd, questionable behavior.

Then there are those people wearing the vests, flagging down strangers, asking for money, for any number of good causes. I’ve yet to determine the best way to respond to them if I’m not stopping to talk. If you make eye contact, they think they have a chance. If you ignore them, they still might try to talk to you.

Never mind that these days I’m not going anywhere very quickly. My walk is not a full blown waddle yet, but it does have some elements of a sideways sway and a loss of forward motion. One random guy shouts at me,

“Hey lady, you’re going too fast, slow down.” He chuckles to himself.

Really? Making fun of a pregnant lady is risky business. I am a giant raging hormone and feel capable of ripping your head off. Plus I’m not worried about breaking a nail because they’re growing really fast.

I waddle-walk toward several fundraisers in vests. A vested woman shouts at me,

“I’d like to talk to the two of you.”

Would you? I can tell you from 8 months of experience, that the only response I’ve been getting from one of us is random kicks and the occasional case of hiccups.

I push on.

I head to a friend’s birthday party. It’s all 20-somethings I don’t know. I try to slip past the food table. The bathroom is my first priority. I do not manage to get by without bumping my belly into a few people. I apologize to one guy who looks totally unfazed, then he glances down, sees my belly and looks at me in absolute horror.

That’s a first. I’m tempted to reassure him that the baby is not his.

As I walk towards home, two guys in their late 20’s stop near me on their skateboards. One shouts at me,

“HOW MANY MONTHS?”

I assume you’re accosting me because you want to make sure to send me a baby present. I’ll take it anytime.