I've finally reached the point where I look so definitely pregnant that people who don't know me are comfortable mentioning it, rather than worrying I've just chunked up a bit and they are about to commit the social faux pas of the year. Since Tuesday, five people who I don't really know but do see regularly to semi-regularly in various classes or groups have asked when I'm due. They've all seemed a bit surprised when I said "February," but I refuse to speculate as to whether they were expecting me to say "April" or "next week" based upon my perceived girth.
The truth is that if I suck it in really hard I can still look less pregnant and more just a bit bloated around the middle. I'm not sure if that's really a better effect and it's also sort of a pain in the ass so I figure I'll save it for when I accidentally run into Clive Owen at the dry cleaners and he falls instantly in love with me and asks me to run away with him to Paris.
I find myself less annoyed by people this time. Even the belly-patting from my mother-in-law doesn't get to me as much as I supposed I've learned to ignore it. It may help that she has yet to tell me pointedly that she only gained eight pounds when she was pregnant with Chris, which she told me repeatedly last time, generally right after making a joke about how fat I was. Don't get me wrong, she's a lovely woman, but it got so bad last time I had to have Chris smack her around a little bit until she promised to stop.
Although, I do have the ultimate cure for belly patting. When I was about 6 months pregnant with Mia I had to attend this work event that was supposed to be about dinner and a concert but turned out to be about everyone except me and the other pregnant girl getting shit-faced drunk. About halfway through the evening, which was near the end for me but before the next four bars the rest of the shit-faced crew hit, a manager who was visiting from another office and who I had met for the first time mere hours earlier decided to rub my belly. So I grabbed his ass. Probably not the best plan if a) he had been remotely sober or b) I had any intention of keeping that job or gave a hot damn whether I was fired on the spot, but it did get my point across and got his grubby little hands off of me. I highly recommend you give it a shot, although obviously only when you have nothing to lose.
(Notice how I didn't even mention my boobs there? Which is too bad, really, because this may be the only time in my whole life that my boobs have been or ever will be mentionable, but I'm refraining because y'all tease me so much. Yeah, I'm emotionally damaged now and I blame it all on you.)