Last week, I went shopping for some vital biological-maternal-guardian-of-a-baby supplies.  (OK, nursing bras, if you must know).

So I bought some bras for the purpose.  They were surprisingly less awful than I thought they would be–and cheaper, too.  I walked out of the Motherhood Maternity at Macy’s with a smile on my face (after two trips to the bathroom in 45 minutes, of course, which lately can be counted as a peeing success).  But I digress, as always.

Afterwards, my trusty shopping companion wanted to hit up Victoria’s Secret for the bargain-finding chaos that is the Semi-Annual sale.  I went along and held our bags while she trawled through bin after messy bin of bras.  When she didn’t find what she was looking for, a helpful sales associate offered to let her look in the extras box under the table, so she set to looking, and the sales associate–spotting my belly–set to chatting.

Here’s an unofficial transcript of our conversation:

Sales associate:  Aw, when are you due?

Me:  March.

Sales associate:  Aw, so exciting!!  (Cooing) Is it your first?

Me:  Yes!  I’m just so excited, I can’t wait.

Sales associate:  Do you know what you’re having yet?

Me:  It’s a girl!

Sales associate (now to be called Sourpuss Bitch):  Ohhhh….  I’m sorry, I have two kids, and girls are AWFUL.

Me:  (Blank stares, eyelids blinking, total silence)

Sourpuss Bitch:  Yeah, I mean… My son is five and is a total dream–so relaxed and chill.  My daughter, though, is eighteen months old, and she’s TERRIBLE.  Girls are just awful, I’m so sorry, but it’s true.

Me:  (Continued stare; shaken out of it by nudge from trusty shopping companion). Oh.  I’m sorry to hear that.  (Because what else can I say?)

Sourpuss Grinch Bitch:  Yeah, she’s like a sixteen-year-old already, all temper and disobedience.  I’d take ten boys over one girl, any day.  I’m so sorry you’re having a girl.

Me:  Well, I’m sure she’ll grow out of it! Toddlers can be like that, but I’m sure she’ll be fine.

Sourpuss Devil Bitch:  No, I don’t think she will.  Like I said, girls are awful.  I’m sorry you’re having a girl.

Me:  (More stunned silence.  I’m acting like I’ve been run over by a truck–and now I have to angry pee).

Trusty shopping companion:  (Butting in)  Found the bra.  Thanks for your help. (Drags me away).

Sourpuss Devil Bitch:   (To shopping companion, all Victoria’s Secret perkiness) Great!  So glad you found it!  (To me, in ominous tones):  Good luck with that (pointing at belly).

This is where you could have heard crickets, even in the semi-crowded store.

HELLO??  Is this any way to talk to a pregnant woman?  Yes, I know my days won’t always be filled with the sounds of chirping birds and cooing child–there will be screaming and spit-up and smelliness.  I’ll get frustrated.  I’ll threaten to send my child back to where she came from–many times, I’m sure.  But really, her tirade is not the something a total stranger should be having with me.

Because honestly?  I’m already in Victoria’s Secret, holding a bag of nursing bras that–while pretty inoffensive-looking half an hour ago–now look like a new form of birth control in all their beigy blandness and totally unsexy in the face of the lace and satin parade around me, and I’m getting squished by shoppers all around me who can’t tell from the front that I’m pregnant and are therefore impatient when I can’t move as much as they expect me to, and ALL I want in my life at this moment (other than to be able to buy pretty bras again and pee in peace, because by now I have to go again) is to bash her in the face all ghetto-style and then walk away with a big grin on my face, telling all and sundry around me about her total lack of parenting skills if she’s already managed to turn her tender toddler into a teenage brat at the precocious age of sixteen months.

This is an extreme example of something that happens all the time.  Already-parents spy belly of parent-to-be, already-parents offer advice or well-wishes, parent-to-be accepts said advice and well-wishes… and already-parents launch into a tirade of the horrors of parenting (topics including:  I’ll never sleep again, I’ll never have time with my husband again, I’ll never be able to have a moment to myself again, poop will be everywhere, my life as I know it is over).

To which I wish I could say:  “Ooh, thanks a lot.  I never really thought of any of this. In that case, let me just remove my child from me and send it back to where it came from so I can go back to my feckless future-child-free ways.  Where can I leave the belly, again?”

Seriously, though, I know things will be different.  Things will change.  I’ll sleep differently.  But I’m resisting the rest.

My life need not revolve around poop and tantrums–though those two things will definitely occur, they’ll only take over my life if I set myself up mentally to let that happen.  I’ll still have time with my husband (hey, my parents had four children and somehow managed to do this all the time) and I’ll still have time for myself (because sorry, I’m committing to spending a free half-hour with a book instead of at the laundry pile unless there’s absolutely NOTHING anyone in the house can wear and we’re in danger of being arrested for public nudity).  It’ll take some working out and some creative time management, but life–a good, happy, non-excrement-and-screams-centered life–will happen.

And even though I know they’ll be times when my child drives me to a busted eardrum or makes me wish it were OK to leave her to the iguanas for a day or two, I know that having a kid is going to be a total, fun adventure.  Trust me:  I’d rather be dead than be overheard telling any pregnant woman or future parent otherwise.  We’re not morons.  We know things will change–and not all of us are glass-empty-water-out people.  Let us expecting folks bask in our positivity, please.  Some of us actually DON’T believe that we are hosting Satan in our bellies.

Sourpuss Devil Bitch  Victoria’s Secret Sales Associate, may your poor daughter continue to torment you for being so unnecessarily rude to me (and to who knows how many other unsuspecting pregnant women have crossed your path).  I hope you know I’m laughing at the thought of you dealing with yet another tantrum right now. I really hope she’s making it a GOOD one.