22 weeks

As my size increases, my privacy diminishes.

Complete strangers accost me on the street and demand to know the sex of the baby, the name, and worse, seem to be under the misconception that my stomach is a public talisman for them to rub at will.

Friends are even worse. They understand that babies are wonderful, yes, but they forget personal boundaries—that there’s a somewhat private matter of just how the baby got here—and hurdle that fine line like they’re pursuing a gold medal.

“Did you have any trouble getting pregnant?”

“Were you trying long?”

Then there’s the wondering if Chip and I were complete dunces for ten years and didn’t quite understand how the whole reproductive thing worked. Better yet, perhaps we had full grasp of the process and just slipped up: “Gee, you guys have been married a long time. Did you mean for this to happen?”

While we most certainly did, is that really anyone’s business? And what if we hadn’t? Someone uncouth enough to ask that question would also be likely to tell a child that he/she was unwanted.

In this day of instant access to any and all information, some people need to learn to mind their own business.