Already Has A Big Baby To Look After

, , , , , | Friendly | August 11, 2018

(I’m chatting on the phone with a friend. I recently told her I was pregnant.)

Friend: “So, how far along are you now?”

Me: “Uh, about 26 weeks.”

Friend: *in a disgusted tone* “Ew, no. Don’t do that. Don’t go by weeks. Go by months. Gross.”

Me: “Developmentally, there’s a difference. My doctor and my tracker app say 26 weeks, so I’ve been going by that.”

Friend: “Ew. That’s just too much. Months. How many months are you?”

Me: *internally sighing* “Well, if you can’t do the math, six and a half months. “

Friend: “That’s better. So, when you have your baby, I was planning to take the next day or two off from work and come over and hang out, and stay the night. But I’m not changing any diapers or nothing. So don’t ask.”

Me: *looking for a polite way to tell her no* “Um, I’ll probably be in the hospital for a couple of days.”

Friend: “So? I can sleep in your hospital room.”

Me: “Well, it’s just that we all know how you feel about hospitals. I wouldn’t think you’d be very comfortable.”

Friend: “Huh. Good point. I can just stay at your apartment, then. You’ll have to send me your address, though. I don’t know how to get there. Ooh, and I’ll need a copy of your key. And I’ll make you a copy of mine, so we can hang out whenever, and since you’ll have a baby, you won’t have to get up to answer the door or let me in or whatever.”

Me: *not having the energy for this* “Well, we’re doing some renovations right now, so we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

(When I hang up, I make a mental note not to tell her when I go into labor. We meet up for a girl’s night at her place three weeks later. Unfortunately, I go into labor in the middle of the night, and end up slipping out during the wee hours of the morning to go to the hospital. She blows up my phone all day, wanting to know what’s happening, did I give birth yet, is it “real labor,” etc. I don’t respond until dinnertime, and when I do, it’s just to get her to stop calling and texting so I can rest. I simply text her:)

Me: “Yes, they were contractions. I need to rest.”

(She then tells me she’s at the hospital, in the parking lot, and starts bugging me for my room number, whining that she wants to see the baby. Out of patience, I respond:)

Me: “I was just in labor for twelve hours. My baby is in intensive care, covered in wires and lines. I am exhausted. I’m not feeling social, and I don’t want visitors. Nor is my baby having any visitors because she has little to no immune system. Go home. We’ll talk later.”

(She finally did, but that night, I saw she had posted about becoming an aunt, my child being born two months early — even though it was closer to three, but remember, she believes in months, not weeks, and as far as she cares, I was seven months — while tagging me in said post, along with an ultrasound picture. She did this even though my husband and I had never “announced” that we were expecting, nor had either of us said anything publicly about the birth or pregnancy. I immediately told her to take the post down, as my husband and I fully planned NOT to plaster our daughter all over social media. She removed the post without responding, and the next morning asked what the f*** I was talking about, as she had no recollection of posting anything of the sort. Over the course of the next couple weeks, I ended up ignoring her begging to see the baby, wanting me to send her pictures, etc. She also didn’t seem to understand the seriousness of an eleven-week premature baby in the NICU, and continually asked if she was still in NICU, and, “When the f*** is she going home?” This friendship may need to go on the back burner for a while. Is it really any wonder that I didn’t tell her I was even pregnant until I was already 21 weeks? Whoops, I mean five months.)

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