I am barely four weeks pregnant (two weeks since conception) and already the advice is coming. The “baby” is little more than a cluster of cells hopefully embedded in my uterus and I haven’t even experienced any symptoms (except wanting to sleep all the time) and people are already offering advice.
From the baristas at Starbucks: A little caffeine won’t hurt me.
From my wonderful veterinarian, Dr. Smithey: the toxoplasmosis lecture.
From my writer friend Sommer: sleep as much as possible, babies suck your brain dry.
From my writer friend Alana: ignore all the advice I’m going to get.
From pretty much everyone: get a bigger car!
I know at some point, the well-meaning advice will start to annoy me. I will resent anyone telling me what to put in (or do to) my body, how to take care of myself, my pregnancy, my child, my life. I’m not a good advice-taker anyway. I rarely ask for it—maybe because I rarely follow it. I know my own path most of the time.
But right now I’m enjoying the advice. I’m listening and nodding and smiling in appreciation. Right now, I’m just so amazed I’m actually pregnant that the advice feels like a gift.
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