You preface every chore around the house with a sign and “I would do it, Honey, but you know . . .” and point to your stomach and shrug.
You stuff your shirt with a pillow so no one looks twice when you (and your six-week-pregnant belly) waddle from your car parked in a towing zone.
At 9:00 p.m. you send your husband out for an aus jus sub from a deli across town because the baby needs protein.
You claim your unborn baby is allergic to anything not made with organic cotton so Aunt Mildred’s not offended when you return her gift of a pink polka-dotted onesie . . . for your son.
You start carrying Mace at five months so you can blast the next person who lays a finger on your belly.
The smell of laundry detergent and/or dish washing soap conveniently makes you nauseous whenever someone with opposable thumbs is around.
You ask your husband if you are showing and when he replies that you are, you look over your shoulder and stare him down like he’s just uttered the grossest profanity.
You blame any obvious gastric expulsions on the baby whose digestive system is the size of a lentil.
If you and your husband are having a disagreement, you splay your hands protectively over your stomach and say, “Don’t worry, Baby. Daddy really loves Mommy.”
You walk around Sam’s Club from 12-3 on Sunday afternoons with your hands on your lower back and your belly thrust out so you can get first dibs on the food samples.
You stop shaving your armpits at two months pregnant because you claim you can’t reach them.
Your husband is so used to calling in Chinese food at midnight that he has Won Ton’s on speed dial.
You carry a gallon of water around during Black Friday so you can pour it all over the concrete and scream, “My water just broke!” right as sales personnel are opening their doors.
You make gagging noises while in the bathroom so that your husband thinks you are still having morning sickness into the third trimester and will take pity on you.
When standing in line for the salad bar, you use your stomach as a battering ram so a little old lady doesn’t get her paws on the fresh batch of rye croutons.
You make sure to eat your weight in salt, then place your swollen feet in your husband’s lap and throw some lotion at him.
You extend the need for maternity clothes into the Macy’s shoe aisle, purchasing six new pairs of strappy heels you claim will perfectly coordinate with your muumuu-style smocks.
On a road trip all your bathroom breaks are mysteriously synchronized with exit signs for Baskin Robbins.
Whenever the theme music for Monday night football can be heard from the den, you waddle in and say that baby really needs father/daughter or father/son time. This will often include rereading all your old love letters while gazing into each other’s eyes or a backrub for Mommy while telling her how beautiful she is.