I don’t know if you guys are aware of this or not, but nothing ever really happens unless you post about it online before, during or after the experience. Even if that experience is eating pancakes.
“Wait a second,” you might be saying to yourself. “But didn’t things happen before the invention of social media?” No. No they didn’t. Nothing ever happened. Native Americans weren’t murdered for having the gall to live how they had been living for thousands of years and George Washington is a myth. The Dawn of Man happened when Mark Zuckerberg allegedly stole the idea for a Book of Faces from a couple of Winklevii twins.
About two years ago, the status updates on my Facebook feed started to switch from soliloquies about Spring Break to monologues referencing sciatica pains due to 8 pound parasitic fetuses hanging out inside of my friends’ wombs. To be clear, I love babies. I think pregnant women are beautiful. Giving birth is the bravest thing a person can do aside from confidently stabbing a Capri Sun on the first try without fear of red juice squirting all over their shirt. But the fact remains that fetuses are parasitic creatures, feeding off of a woman’s body like a round worm. A round worm that bursts through a vagina, sucks on your boob for a year and then drains your bank account for 18 years. If you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, your child will be just like me, and still living at home at 24 because she decided to take 6 years to get her Bachelor’s Degree.
It’s not terrible at first, this influx of pregnancy discourse. It’s even charming. You get to experience pregnancy through the eyes of someone your own age. Because they post every single detail. But after awhile, it becomes less charming and more soul-crushingly grating. Because they post every single detail.
A funny thing happened between 6 months ago and now. I stopped feeling completely relieved I was not with child and started to become only half relieved that I was not with child. Somehow, a small piece of me started to become actually jealous of all these ladies with babies popping up in my social medias. Whenever I was stressed out, I would see posts about how happy they were. When I was feeling down? I would see status updates referencing their babies’ socks, which we all know are the most adorable parts about dressing a baby. When I was eating ice cream by the pint and thinking about how I’m going to die alone, they would post pictures of their babies. Babies that ensure they will not die alone. Babies that ensure someone will visit them in the old folks’ home. “Who is going to visit me in the old folks’ home?!” I would cry loudly, ice cream falling out of my maw and onto my keyboard. “Not Half Baked or Phish Food!”
But you know what? I don’t have to wipe butts all day. I don’t have to wake up at 3 AM to feed anyone. I don’t have to clean up vomit from my shoulder… unless I’ve had a really interesting night. By the way, ladies with babies? Call it “spit up” all you want, we all know it’s straight up vomit. Boob milk vomit. That’s so many bodily liquids in one disgusting projectile stream.
So what can you expect when your Facebook friend is expecting? Relief. Jealousy. A general sense of ennui. Jealousy again because babies are adorable and their heads smell amazing. Most of all, expect an appreciation for the number of butts you have to wipe versus the number of butts they have to wipe.
Featured image via ShutterStock, subsequent pictures screen capped from youropenbook.com