every (?) woman's biological and procreative destiny and ambition, apparently, is to push a thrashing object the size and weight of a kitchen aid appliance, out of her hoo-hoo (i just learned this word last week and have been waiting for an opportunity to use it). and until you can claim bragging rights to; splitting, stretch marks, and passing plugs of mucous, there is no "get out of [jail] free card". pregnancy is now a politically correct "state of being" that must be respected ad nauseum; to cater to: 'she who is with child'. let it be known that i do not have a problem giving up my seat on the train, or holding the door for a woman struggling to get her SUV style baby stroller in and out of buildings. i will even give sympathetic looks to mothers and screaming babies in adjacent aeroplane seats, although after 2 hours of caterwauling (into a 7 hour flight) and i will begin to experience migraine induced homicidal tendencies.
circa. the flintstone's era, cave women were pushing out little cave bundles of joy to the thuds of charging dinosaurs. today there are still women, bent (ish) double, labouring in rice paddies until their water breaks, creating that unique flavour of placenta infused long grain. however, in addition to cell phones that can locate the nearest dairy queen (in hong kong), expectant mother's of today are also a breed unto themselves; adopting an anti-nursing bra burning "fetch me my smelling salts" fragility. if a job description requires certain physical movements (god knows i was fearful watching the 'safe back while lifting a ream of copier paper' video during orientation) then perhaps women need to stop having unprotected sex, or stay home, kick off their shoes, and start making meatloaf in their "given-to-me-by-my-mother-laura-ashley-floral-sailor-dress", and work on the stereotype a little harder. HR no longer recognizes "maternity leave". having a child now qualifies a woman as "disabled". however, if an employee is asked to fulfil part of their duties and counters with a "but im pregnant", perhaps they need to go home and crochet a new job.
on that note, i would like to cash in my "i'm 5'1/blonde/foreign/compulsively anxious/a firstborn child/terrible cook/product of an intact marriage/makes the bed every morning/non-washer of vegetables or rinser of dishes" card.