There comes a time in every woman’s pregnancy when the novelty has worn off, the excitement has waned, and the normal gamut of emotions that accompany this joyous time has run its course. By the 9th month, the only thing left is enoughness.

The Diva Dictionary defines "Enoughness" as the point of gestational epiphany when it is time to begin eviction proceedings to foreclose on the uterus duplex, and convert back to a single tenancy dwelling once again. (Please note this has nothing to do with the joy of having a child, but everything to do with the end of pregnancy.) The Diva Thesaurus would include December 26th, Oscar after-parties, and exit polling. (Other helpful entries in these two suburban reference materials include mascallop: the glop of mascara that falls on your nose when applying to your lashes, and martini graffini: the words you can write in the glass’ condensation on a properly chilled Cosmopolitan.)

I’ll list some practical examples. Enough with the sales clerks’ running commentary on my fertility. I realize that looking at me at the moment elicits the irresistible urge to boil a pot of water, but I promise I will not give birth in your presence if you just don’t ask me "When’s the big day?" I guess it depends on which "big" day you are referring to. Because at 36 weeks at 24 pounds later, today’s a pretty "big" day. When my ankles swell to the width of my thigh, that’ll be another "big" day. The fact that I just outgrew a pair of maternity jeans made yesterday a really "big" day. Every day is "big;" super-sized, in fact.

And enough with the elephant gestational period. Seriously. I’ve been pregnant so long I feel like I’m going to be giving birth to a 6 year old calf. I’ll be home schooling through my uterus. I am going to have to investigate whether Barbasol can be passed through the umbilical cord because he’s going to have to start shaving soon.

Enough with the grace of that elephant, too. I’m tired of clumsiness, of running into things or tripping on air. I also am done with that feeling of helplessness when I drop something on the floor and just stare at it hoping it will magically reappear in my hands because I can no longer bend down to pick it up.

Enough with the general feeling that body is now community property. Enough with strangers touching my belly because they say "it’s good luck." I would be less offended if you threw pennies at me. And with the exception of one guy in a white coat with a stethoscope, no one should know, inquire or even refer to the size of my cervix in mixed company.

Enough with clothing patterned after upside down hoop skirts. Enough with large panels, lack of pockets and wide-band elastic waists that twist like a slinky after the first washing. Please give me back zippers and shoelaces.

Enough with being relegated to the kiddy table for 9 months. Because I am carrying a child means I have the social standing and the non-existent rights as one. Grape juice at dinner, height requirements on amusement park rides, and declined invitations for anything the big kids are doing late at night. And if we do end up going out to dinner, we still need to pack a diaper bag for me filled with a change of clothes, (because I will end up dropping food on my belly that now reaches my chin when I sit down), a bag of brightly colored candy (they happen to be Tums from the resulting heartburn) and a Spongebob sports watch to time the contractions.

And finally, enough with the loss of my otherwise pleasant nature and sense of humor that results in whiny columns like this one.

©2007 Tracey Henry

Divamail me and my undergraduate student. Divamail@SuburbanDiva.com.