I have come to the conclusion . . .

. . . that there are two basic types of pregnant people (and I say "people" rather than "women" because their husbands/boyfriends/significant others do the same thing).

The first type of pregnant people are those who are normal, regular people who just happen to be growing an extra person inside them. It may come up in conversation, it may not. If it does, it doesn't feel like they're rubbing it in anyone's face; it's just how they happen to be. Hearing them talk about their pregnancy feels about as traumatizing as hearing them say they brushed their teeth that morning. It's just part of the regular routine and nothing to get worked up about.

They are the pregnant people I can hang out with and feel comfortable and not stressed. They're still fun to be with and easy to talk to. Heck, I could talk to them for hours about what color they're painting the nursery and still feel happy and zen and glad to know and be around them, and even be excited for their pregnancy, without grieving for my own.

The second kind are those who are HOLY CRAP I AM ****PREG-NANT***** AND DID I MENTION I AM PREGNANT? Everything is about them and their pregnancy. Because did you know they're PREGNANT? (Oh, and did I mention they're pregnant?) Just as nearly every Relief Society lesson in Utah County turns into "Why Being a Mother is Amazing," no matter where the conversation is going, these people are PREGNANT. "I went to the grocery store and I'm pregnant. I love the Red Hot Chili Peppers and I'm pregnant. The square root of 179 is 13.379088160259652 and I'm pregnant. We're living in nuclear winter and I'm pregnant. An asteroid is heading for the Earth with an imminent impact in 17 seconds but GUESS WHAT I AM PREGNAAAAAAAAANT!!!!! Isn't it SUCH A BLESSING TO BE PREGNANT?!?!"

Conversation with these people is no fun. It's an ordeal to be got through with plenty of clenched teeth and internal recitations of Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall or whatever other mantra will be sufficiently distracting. When I see these people coming I hide behind the nearest tree or duck into the next room or hallway because even a thirty second conversation with these people can shatter the delicate balance of my zen-itude for a week at a time. And by shatter I mean make me NEED to find the most fattening food available and wallow in it. Cry on and off for a day and a half. Sink, as Anne Shirley would say, into the depths of despair and start worrying that this will never happen, or it will happen again exactly like it did before, or that I'm not healing right, or, or, or, maybe I'd better start on that second pint of ice cream.

Because THEY ARE PREGNANT (and did they mention they were pregnant?).

And I'm not.