I walk down Santa Monica Boulevard, as quickly as my pregnant ass will allow these days, eager to get home and devour my Starbucks cinnamon coffee cake. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an oncoming van slow down. The little man in the passenger seat pokes his head out the window, leering at me. I know what’s coming next. Any woman knows what’s coming next. I roll my eyes and wait. Only…
The little man finally gets an eyeful of my side view, of my burgeoning belly bouncing like a kangaroo, and immediately retreats from his Wolf Whistle Position. “Abort! Abort Mission: Objectify!” He looks embarrassed, horrified, guilty. Disinterested.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. So I do the only thing that makes sense in this ever-changing world of mine: Start tearing into my coffee cake.
Such was my morning yesterday. As an expectant first-time mother, the transition from sex object to mommy has been interesting, to say the least. YES, I know mothers can still be sexy, hence the respectful label “MILF.” NO, I am not being vain by throwing myself in the “sex object” category, as most every woman with a semblance of a pulse, or not even, has been subjected to the passing “WOO-HOO, BABY! LOOKIN’ GOOD!” shout-out. YES, I should have waited till I’d gotten home to scarf down that coffee cake. So much better with milk.
Yet it’s all different somehow, is it not? The sexiness factor for mamas, I mean. Not only are our identities suddenly dominated by our offspring, but we mothers are also judged more harshly than other women, based on a judge-o-meter ranging from Dowdy Soccer Mom to Mom Whore. Hell, we’ve all heard somebody say, “Did you see the cleavage she was showing in that shirt? She’s a MOTHER, for crying out loud!”
By the way, I really don’t appreciate you talking about my mom like that.
It’s a fact of life to which I’m still adjusting, as men continue to back away from my stomach as though a ghostly creature is going to reach through my abdomen and slime them, à la “Ghostbusters.” Which is just preposterous. Everybody knows that doesn’t happen until the ninth month.
All I know is this: I may have thrown away my micro-minis, but I WILL continue to wear my beloved heels in motherhood, just as I do now in my eighth month of pregnancy, judgers be damned! So remember: If our kids happen to play softball together, I’ll be the mom stuck in left field because my stilettos have sunk into the ground. Once you’re done laughing, a hand — or at least a passing “WOO-HOO, BABY! LOOKIN’ GOOD!” shout-out — would be greatly appreciated.