A whopping 20 weeks. Emphasis on whopping.
Anyways, now that I'm into what I refer to as a full fledged baby gut, I would like to pass on a warning.
Don't touch my god damn stomach.
No, really. If I don't know you, if we've never met, if we've only briefly talked in the past and I wouldn't tell you about my deep, dark, twisty secrets, then you shouldn't at any point feel like you can touch my stomach.
Please note, this does not apply to immediate family and friends. Touch away. And then tell me I look beautiful. And then buy me stuff. And then cook me supper (or all meals of the day).
Seriously, I just don't get how some people think it's complete okay, socially acceptable even, to come up to a pregnant lady and touch her stomach (and don't give me that "miracle of life" crap). What if I wasn't pregnant and you're in fact rubbing my burger love food baby belly? I'd be half tempted to tell the toucher I wasn't pregnant, just to make it as awkward as possible. If you're going to go around putting your hands where they don't belong, then I should get to make you feel like an ass for doing so.
That being said, I haven't been a victim of this yet, but I feel like it's coming. Y'know, like the Starks knew winter was coming. If only their foresight of the weather could be used to predict their impending deaths. Oops, SPOILER ALERT.
I've touched one preggo belly in my life, and it belongs to that of my future sister-in-law. Even then, I felt like I was invading her space. She's already got an alien tap dancing on her bladder; she doesn't need me to tune in for the show. That being said...I will continue to rub your belly, Tash. Deal with it.
Moral of the story: Keep your hands to yourself, ya filthy animal.
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