Tuesday, September 11, 2001

When you're pregnant, you get lots of input from the public. Some of it's annoying, but I always like it when people say ``you should listen to your body'' because it gives me license to finally climb down from the StairMaster.

For nine months, under the guise of ``doing what's best for baby,'' I can be as lazy as I want.

Actually, that was true the first time around. Now that I'm pregnant with my second child, my body has gotten wind of its power - and there's no living with it.

Last Monday I was taking the T to work at 8 in the morning when my body said, in a rather bossy way, ``Gimme the chicken salad.''

``That's for lunch,'' I whispered, speaking to it as one does to a child on the brink of a tantrum, trying to hush it without escalating matters.

My body didn't hear me, or pretended not to. I'm supposed to listen to it, but it doesn't have to listen to me, apparently. ``The Milanos, too.''

At first my body limited its demands to issues legitimately within its purview, although it did play the pregnancy card a bit too often.

And, oh, it knew all the code words. ``I'm `craving' a hot fudge sundae,'' it would say.

When I pointed out that it had been `craving' ice cream since I - er, we - were in sixth grade, so this wasn't, technically, a pregnancy matter, it had a response ready. ``I need the calcium.''

Who could argue? I fed it what it wanted, but was it satisfied? No.

``I need to join a nicer gym,'' it said the other day. When I mentioned that we no longer went to the gym because it said it was ``too tired after a long day's work,'' it didn't miss a beat. ``I need a pedicure. I've got to feel good about me, or baby won't be happy.''

Then it claimed to ``need'' diamond earrings. ``From Tiffany's,'' it added. ``And don't cheap out. A carat each.''

I should have said no, but appalled as I am by my body's sense of entitlement, I also pity it: Strangers have declared open season, inquiring how much weight it has gained, passing judgment on how ``it's carrying,'' making remarks about multiple births.

``Twins?'' a woman asked when I was eight months pregnant with my first child. ``No,'' I replied, ``triplets.''

``Wow,'' she said, ``you look great.''

The take-home message was clear: Although I will teach my children not to lie, I myself will lie whenever necessary.

So when a colleague recently asked how many months along I was, I answered ``seven'' even though I was only six and three quarters. I was feeling large - I needed that extra week.

``You're not that big,'' he said, staring at my belly. ``Not for seven months.''

He was right. For seven months I wasn't that big. And if I were eight months pregnant? Why, I'd be almost - dare I say it? -tiny.

So for the next couple of months I plan to tack a few weeks onto my progress, although I guess I better be careful with co-workers and others I'll see in the future.

When I'm still at my desk in my ``tenth'' or ``eleventh'' month, I'm going to have some explaining to do. Or my body will.

Beth Teitel Talk Back