Yesterday I had my first appointment with the nurse, the one where she rattles of a million medieval diseases, I nod no to them all, she gives me a captain’s log worth of blood work scripts, and sends me on my way with a huge bag full of free shit…which is the only reason I got knocked up in the first place, I am a swag whore.

But, despite my killing of free changing pads, and a leather bound journal full of fetuses of the month, I still walked out with a cloud above my head.

Perhaps it was because, as I sat in the waiting room, I realized…I was the only one not texting on my sidekick and reading magazines with The Jonas Brothers on the front. I am 27…and I was the oldest pregnant person there. I was stuck in this sterile room full of little Junos, only younger…like Bangkok sex trade young…and they had on school uniforms, and low rider jeans, and shirts with the word Tease on them (ironically…must not be old enough to have covered vocab yet). And their poor mothers, the ONLY people in the room who looked remotely older than me, all had the same look of defeat on their faces, as they argued with their about to pop daughters why they could not, in fact, go to a party that evening and ditch their shift at the Olive Garden…again.

And, before you get all upset, I am totally hip to the fact that teen pregnancy seems to be all the rage these days. I mean, it’s genius really, what better point in your life to pop one out, than when your body is guaranteed to instantaneously morph back into it’s original shape, I mean, 14 years olds are made of rubber.

Gone are the original days of teen pregnancy, the Lorelei Gilmores have been pushed aside by the Jaime Lynns and Bristols, their idea of maternity wear is an empire waist tank from Wet Seal, as they plan their baby showers around their Sweet Sixteen parties.


Maybe…but only because I know it will take me a year of fasting and colonics to lose my baby belly.

And, as I walked out after my appointment, one of the mother daughter duos was in the parking lot, screaming at each other about the actual definition of bed rest, and how it doesn’t include going to the movies with friends, and how the girl needs to grow up.

I am so happy my kids don’t have ovaries.

P.S. I am pretty sure no one will leave me comments on this because I sound like a bitter old bat of a woman who yells at kids for walking on her grass…which is only the case because we just reseeded.

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