Silver card

I passed the 10 kilos benchmark (extra weight one should put over the pregnancy) in mid November. Now, with a very significant waist size, I'm what can be only defined as "a very pregnant lady". The baby kicks like he is high on sugar, and he probably IS high on sugar, given that I cannot stop nibbling.

I thought at this stage one becomes a rounded cute respectable lady that should be taken care of, given priority access and spots in buses, get carried around her luggage in trains and given priority treatment in other number of ways. Well. No.

I'm lucky or unlucky enough to own a sixties style bell shaped coat that hides my belly so properly I had to give my place in the bus to a nice old lady when she stood up staring half a meter from me. In the office, besides the eventual hint to the fact that I plan to come back to work soon and that is stealing my child the right of having his mummy home, I don't get any special treatment, having to deliver my reports on time and travel to Bratislava every week. People are extra nice, sure, but no special treats.

So, things like this, in the airport I was fearing for the worse, holding close the pregnancy papers that prove I should be allowed to fly and expecting that I would have to squat ridiculously to take off my shoes. Sure enough, I had to squat ridiculously to take off my shoes, but I was also given all kind of special treats and preferences. Pregnancy? No dear, ownership of a silver card that from time to time sends me directly to business class paradise. Ah, this materialistic world…


Pregnancy symptoms: Inability to bend over without spreading my legs like an inflated frog

Mother instinct: I have to admit, it is nice when the little alien kicks and moves inside. Nice and freaking weird too