You’re pregnant. I’m pregnant.

When Ryan had a jeep, I learned to nod as I drove past fellow jeepers. Later, I learned that motorcyclists lift an index finger to each other to acknowledge their likeness. And I now find myself nodding and lifting my index finger whenever my path crosses a bright yellow vehicle. It’s important to acknowledge the uniqueness of our transport.

Lately I’ve been trying to detect how pregnant women acknowledge each other. I sense that there is some sort of international code for “you’re pregnant, I’m pregnant”, but I missed the memo. So, I’ve tried a few things.

For one, I actually look the woman in the eye. I think I, for one, should acknowledge that everyone stares at your stomach once it’s grown to a gargantuan size.

Unfortunately, there’s a flaw. Just looking at someone doesn’t acknowledge that you’re aware of your shared experience. So I find myself looking at her stomach and back up her face, back to her stomach and up to her face, like some sort of perpetual head nod asking if she’s seeing what I’m seeing.

It kind of makes me dizzy.

So I’ve taken to a smile, though I continue to tilt and lower my head ever so slightly. But I’m pretty sure she knows what I’m trying to say.

One thought on “You’re pregnant. I’m pregnant.

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