And so she asks me, 6 weeks after birth, when I was due again?


I wanted to ground to swallow me up. And I think if my friends had had the energy they would have started digging the hole for me. Because the skinny cow behind the counter at Sensory Play had just uttered the words “When are you due again?”

Time stood still. I looked at my partner in crime Louise, she looked at me.

Silence fell around us.

Even Noah stopped chewing his Jelly Cat and went cross eyed as if straining to see my reaction.

I pulled forward the hood on his car seat as if that would somehow render him deaf for the next 30 seconds and turn to skinny cow, “you better be kidding me! – he’s f**king 6 weeks old”.

And wait for it…she (not me) started to cry.

Now I’d love to tell you the rest of the story in detail, how well I styled it out, how she chased me into the car park begging me not to leave her (think she had issues) and how Noah and I are proud owners of several free Sensory Play vouchers but that’s not the point of this post.

The point is that that from the day you announce you were crazy enough to get pregnant to somewhere around the day you die to assume neither how pregnant someone is, how long ago they were pregnant, if they even are pregnant…I could go on.

Nope, nada, nothings okay. It seems the only smart ones who picked up this memo is men; who know NEVER to comment on a women’s size – and if they get it, why don’t we?

As women we seem to be the ones ready to comment on someone’s size even when our comments are uninvited. Vocally judging in a way which must make us feel better about our own misfortunes.

That day, I didn’t learn to wear looser clothes or to sign up for a new diet – I learnt what it was like to be on the receiving end of another mum’s judgement and in some way I want to thank that skinny cow, because I’ll never comment on another mum’s size again.


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