Take my advice....

I have made it past 20 weeks.  The halfway point in a pregnancy.  I still wake up some days and forget what’s happening.  There is a hazy dawn moment when it’s just me and Thom.  Then I realize in a few months these two will be here with us and I may not even remember what those hazy mornings ever felt like. 

Along with being past 20 weeks obviously goes the inevitable growing girth.  As I get ever bigger, and the world can see what's happening to me, baby advice is practically sprouting from ground I walk on.  Everyone has a supposedly good idea or an essential tidbit for me or the babies.  

Listen to gospel music, babies love it.

Don't dress them the same, it will screw them up.

Buy a dog, it’s good for kids.

Beware of teenagers, they are always terrible.  With two, you’ll struggle.

Don't buy a dog, get one from a rescue home.  It’s the only way.

Don't exercise. You could risk your babies.

Don't take the stairs.  It’s not safe.

You shouldn't be wearing those heels. 

Goodness knows how people come to these tips.  However, they hatch their ideas, I’m certain it’s not just for me, as the mother-to-be books have dedicated sections on dealing with the advice onslaught endured by pregnant women.  To be fair, it comes in all forms and although can be bizarre and annoying, it is not always so.  There is plenty of advice that is offered like a gift, from a desire to help, to be involved, to save someone from potential suffering or give happiness. 

I’ve noticed more and more how much the world takes pregnant me on as if I belong to them.  Not just people that are parents themselves, but a great range of people seem to take the project of parenthood as a something that concerns us all.  It makes me think of the phrase, ‘it takes a village to raise a child’, coined by Hilary Clinton in recent history, but credited to an African proverb traditionally.  While it remains true also that many others couldn't give a damn about pregnancy, or even have a palpable distaste for it.  This attitude is clear on London public transport, where I am greeted with looks of suspicion and annoyance, most likely for having the gall to bring another body into the already crowded Underground.  

But when it comes to the advice-givers, there are times when my bump certainly does feel like public property.  It’s open for comment, analysis and the occasional feel.  Even patients at the hospital have dared put feel up my bump.  My lifestyle and choices are open for scrutiny by more than just my consultant and midwife.  I begin to wonder if I look like a crack addict or someone who might unwittingly trade her child for an iPod.     

Even if the advice I'm getting is correct, which is plainly debatable, it is bizarre that everyone has something to contribute.  But when people do give advice, deluded or not, it seems to come from the knowledge that it is huge task to raise a child, and a responsibility that cannot be fulfilled by one person alone.  So while it can feel controlling, it is maybe a very human reaction to the enormity of parenthood.