The ob/gyn practice I frequent often overbooks. Since I have bi-weekly appointments with my doctor and get progesterone shots every week, I spend at least an hour, often two hours, a week sitting in the waiting room.
Usually, I do my best to avoid looking at or speaking to anyone, but this week, the woman across from me would not be ignored. My back and hips have been hurting a lot lately, and sitting for 90 minutes or so in the semi-soft waiting-room chairs does not help. Every week I walk in and wish they would spring for some more comfortable chairs. Hard or soft are fine, in between sucks. So I kept stretching my arms over my head and otherwise trying to release the tension in my back.
Seeing me do that, the woman across from me asked, “So you haven’t heard about putting your arms above your head?”
I answered, “What?” but immediately realized I knew exactly what she was going to say.
“If you put your arms above your head, your baby’s cord could get around his neck and strangle him.”
So I told her to shut up. I’m kidding, I wouldn’t do that. But I did say, “That’s anatomically impossible,” in a tone that definitely indicated I didn’t want to discuss it further. Ten minutes earlier, she told me she was really disappointed she was having a girl, because she wanted a boy. I wish I’d told her she should’ve used the “Chinese Gender Predictor,” or that next time, she needs to make sure she and her boyfriend orgasmed at the same time. I could’ve also just made something up, and told her wearing flip flops will give her baby flat feet or incessantly typing on her smart phone will make her baby ugly.
These are the times I should be grateful I spend most of my pregnant time holed up in the privacy of my own home.