As I am reaching for something, my shirt came up and my oh so white, slowly bruising abdomen peeked out. The teenage boy next to me in the aisle laughed, pointed to his friends and snickered. My husband didn’t realize they were making me their target until they walked away. It was a good thing too, because most people don’t realize how deadly one of those white canes can be!

Okay, I fume and get over it and a few minutes later I feel nauseous. I tell him I’ll be right back and I head into the ladies room. As I walk in I am bombarded by a little boy of about 3 swinging on the door handle. Pushing past him, I enter the restroom only to have to climb over a shopping cart. Said shopping cart has a baby girl inside and nothing else. While I’m now fuming at the cart and the person who inconvenienced everyone entering the bathroom, I’m assaulted by a young boy. He pokes me in the stomach something fierce, and says “Mom, look how big her belly is”. So now, my nausea is compounded by anger, self loathing and a hatred for his mother, who says or does nothing. No awkward glance, no shushing of the boy, who should have been old enough to know better. I would have said something, except the room was jammed and I didn’t want to make a scene. Part of me was afraid I was going to vomit if I opened my mouth. Finally a stall opens, and I go in and lean against the door. After fighting back the waves, I walk out to find my husband, who I had to leave in an aisle.

Normally I would write both of these off as stupid. Pre-teen boys have nothing better to do than pick on people. Kids don’t know any better. They don’t know that this belly comes from too many cycles of fertility drugs so that I can end up with a child who will NEVER be a brat like them. I wanted to run into them in an aisle so I could correct the child, or confront his mother. Maybe I’m oversensitive. Maybe they just caught me on a bad day. But it bothered me so much. Not so much the older kid, cause I know someday he’ll be balding and impotent with a bigger gut than mine. But the little boy and his mom. He looked about 8. I guess I expected her to correct him, or tell him to apologize or make a remark to me about how he was sorry. I guess the majority of parents don’t raise their children the way I was raised. I guess all this time trying to have a baby has made me evaluate what kind of parent I want to be, and that isn’t it. I don’t even know where I’m going here, I’m rambling, but it was bothering me, and I wanted to share this with you because I thought some of you might understand.