Two years ago, I did something evil. It wasn’t planned and, for all my lawyer colleagues, there was no malice aforethought. It happened one week after I delivered my second daughter.
Overcome with a cornucopia of dreadful emotions, my husband convinced me to get out of the house and treat myself to a good, old-fashioned mani-pedi.
Perfect!
So I got into my mom-mobile and skedaddled to the nearest “spa,” one of those stereotypical Asian nail salons wedged between a dry cleaning place and Mediterranean cafe in a strip mall. I’d been there a couple times before, but stopped going because — despite there being multiple female technicians — I always got stuck with the older man who never stopped talking.
Don’t get me wrong. I love chatting. But when I’m trying to “relax,” I certainly don’t want to make small talk about the weather, my summer plans, or if I’ve been to any good restaurants lately.
I just don’t.
For the sake of saving time, since this salon was the closest one to my house, I went there and crossed my fingers I wouldn’t get stuck with Jabbery Joe.
I got Jabbery Joe. (Of course I did!)
While he was giving me my manicure, he asked if I had kids.
“Yes. I have two daughters, ages 1 and 3.”
As I didn’t want to open up the floodgates to any additional questions, I omitted that I had a newborn baby back at the house, and felt my white lie was justified.
Then, he moved me into the pedicure chair. As he glanced up at me while painting my toenails (this was after he went all crazy with the “cheese grater”,) he took one look at my post-baby gut, which was in all its glory, and loudly said:
“Ohhhhhh, you pregnant! How far ‘long?”
I took one look at Jabbery Joe and glared.
With eyes redder than the “Thrill of Brazil” polish he was using, I sinisterly replied: “I’m not pregnant.”
Befuddled, he looked at me with the fear of God, seemed like he was going to vomit, and the only “save” he could muster up was:
“Second baby bigga. Second baby bigga.”
I guess this meant the woman is bigger after delivering her second child which, in his mind, happened last year.
As if that was supposed to make me feel better. Jabbery Joe didn’t say another peep until he thanked me as I was leaving. Good, I thought to myself, serves him right for asking such a dumb question.
When I returned home and told my husband the story, he said I was being mean and should have explained that I had week-old infant at home and, to avoid further questions, been honest about wanting to decompress and not talk anymore.
He’s right. He’s definitely right.
Jabbery Joe was just being kind and showing an interest; good customer service. And there I was, being grouchy and wallowing in my hormonal sorrows.
Fast-forward to last weekend, over two years later.
I went back to this salon and, as luck would have it, got stuck with Jabbery Joe.
The first thing he asked me was how the girls were doing and then reminded me it had been years since I was there, “when my girls were 1 and 3.”
He remembered.
He probably went home that night and got berated by his wife after he confessed to asking a non-pregnant woman how far along she was. And she likely schooled him that, unless someone is in active labor or there isn’t a shred of a question that she’s pregnant, you never ask a woman if she’s “with child.”
Ever.
I debated whether to create any lists on pregnancy political correctness since I am the least P.C. person on the planet, but while our society is so stuck on “not-doing-this” and “stop-saying-that” to avoid offending someone, what’s one more?
So here, my friends, is when it’s okay to ask a woman, who is a complete stranger to you, if she’s pregnant:
When you see a human being physically emerging from her vagina.
This is why a woman who appears to be pregnant could just be wearing a flowy dress; she could simply be overweight; she could have a tumor in her stomach; she could have just gone crazy at a Chinese super buffet. (M.S.G. is good;) she could have a thyroid condition. Or how about this — she could have recently had a baby, and asking her if she’s pregnant is digging the proverbial nail deeper.
Do you really want to set yourself up for an awkward moment?
And that post-baby gut… it’s normal.
According to WebMD, it takes between six to eight weeks after delivery for a woman’s uterus to return to its pre-pregnancy size.
So if you have the gut… congratulations, you’re normal. If you don’t have the gut, bless your heart.
For more from Jennifer Daku Burby, visit The Champagne Supernova and Instagram.
