Look at the Mama! Look at the Mama!

I'm a Leo, which means that I am a hard-core exhibitionist often enjoy a little attention once in a while. (Ok, some of you are probably thinking "Thank you, Captain Obvious, for this startling insight into your psyche. But we figured this out several posts ago.")

When you're knocked up, it's like you're the center of the universe. People pay attention to you. And as your belly gets bigger, it's gravitational pull increases, drawing dewey-eyed gazes, warm smiles, and the usual checklist of questions:

"When are you due?" (December 14th)
"Do you know what you're having?" (A Boy-Child)
"How are you feeling?" (Humongous! Horribly uncomfortable! Hungry! Horny!)
"Do you have any names picked out yet?" (Kind of, but we're not telling.)
"Are you sure you aren't having twins?" (Fuck you.)

People hold doors open for you when you're pregnant.

You get your H1N1 shot without having to wait on line like everyone else.

You can fill your grocery cart with as much Haagen Dazs chocolate ice cream as you want without being judged by the check-out clerk at Albertsons.

People tell you you're glowing.

This solicitousness peaks when you reach Critical Mass: All eyes are on you during the last few weeks of pregnancy, as you become that proverbial 'watched pot.' It's fantastic: Your partner, friends, family, strangers, are all holding their breath, just waiting for your water to break. So, you waddle into the hospital, your hand dramatically clutching your contracting belly, head held high, smiling serenely while shaking on the inside because aside from worrying about the health and safety of your bebe, you know that you might be one of those women who shits herself on the delivery table. And throughout it all, it never occurs to you that your spotlight is about to dim.

You see, once you're a mama, you become invisible.

Sure, at first there's a flurry of emails, calls, and wall-posts on facebook, but after a few weeks, people lose interest. Instead of asking how you're doing, everyone asks after the baby. It's as though now that the baby is out, it no longer matters how you are feeling, or whether or not your needs are met. No wonder Postpartum Depression can strike around this time. I mean, not only do you have this huge hormonal letdown, but you finally realize that you were just a vessel for new life. And while most new mamas can handle this, those of us who thrive on attention, are at a loss.

I remember when my dad got remarried a few months after M was born, I spent over two hours getting dressed. I busted out the Spanx, and squeezed myself into a gorgeous silk ensemble. I even wore heels. The curling iron and I were sympatico, I didn't forget to put on deodorant, and I even managed to hide the fatigue from underneath my eyes with spackle artfully applied concealer and highlighter. And, (armed with my Spanx) I looked almost as good as I did before M was born. Surely, someone would notice, right? But, throughout the afternoon and evening, everyone who came up to me, B, and M did some variation of the "Look at the Baby! Look at the Baby!" refrain. And I get that M should be the center of attention -- after all, even her drool is adorable. Still, it would be nice if someone -- anyone! -- would occasionally look at the mama.

When faced with the harsh reality of becoming the Invisible Mama, some women become uber-competitive, fighting tooth and nail to make the best cake for the bake sale, or bring the most healthy but delicious snack to the playgroup. Other mamas are able to throw themselves back into a career, and forge a new identity based on a lot of hard work and a lot more caffeine. I, on the other hand, got knocked-up again. And as I reach the point of Critical Mass, my inner-Leo is best pleased. Still, this time around, I know that the glorious attention will soon fade away, and so, I'm doing my best to revel in it now, and hope that Little Homie takes his sweet time.