During pregnancy, there’s a whole host of resources you can seek out about your unborn child’s development. They really run the gamut. You have the casual, woman-to-woman insider advice. You have the straightforward medical stuff. And you also have the more alarmist and stiff guides to pregnancy that would have you wearing a Hazmat suit to get a pedicure.
I’ve also noticed a disturbing common trend in several of these resources. Not the constant reminders about how your body will morph into an unrecognizable expanding vehicle of life. No, I’m talking about how they measure the size of your unborn child each week by comparing it to a piece of food.
For example, in the last four weeks, my kid has been—respectively—the size of a mango, an ear of corn, an average rutabaga, a hothouse cucumber, and a head a cauliflower.
What the fuck kind of buffet do these writers frequent?
An average rutabaga? Incredibly helpful.
A hothouse cucumber? Where do I find one of these? How big is my kid? I have no idea. And isn’t this starting to sound racy?
I guess I’m not foodie enough to grasp my child’s development. And I suspect I’m not alone.
Also, what kind of marketing jackass decides on these vegetable representations? Am I supposed to be excited about a head of cauliflower? “Oh my God! I cannot wait until my little garden salad is born.”
No, my kid sounds shriveled up and smelly. Oh God, there goes my pregnancy gag reflex.
If you want to get my attention about the size of my child each week, try this: Compare him/her to a highly appealing dessert item instead.
Let’s compare models.
“Your baby is more than 11 inches long and weighs more than a pound (about as much as a large mango).”
“This week, your child is the size of a magical, zero-calorie double fudge scoop of ice cream wedged between two rich, freshly baked chocolate, chocolate chip cookies.”
“Since he’s almost a foot long (picture an ear of corn), he cuts a pretty lean figure at this point.”
“Good news/bad news: You are what you eat! Your adorable kid has taken on the size and shape of that chocolate eclair you doubled-down on at the Italian bakery this weekend.”
“Her weight—a pound and a half—isn’t much more than an average rutabaga, but she’s beginning to exchange her long, lean look for some baby fat.”
“Your sweet unborn baby now resembles a masterfully crafted portion of tiramisu. Have you had your gestational diabetes test yet? Yes, you with the blog over there and the relentless sweet tooth.”
“He now weighs about a pound and two-thirds and measures 14 inches (a hothouse cucumber) from head to heel.”
“Holy shit, your kid resembles a pile of churros. If you are not excited about this baby now, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“This week, your baby weighs almost 2 pounds (like a head of cauliflower) and is about 14 ½-inches long with her legs extended.”
“This week, your baby is the size of that giant bowl of rice pudding you had a few nights ago. Actually, that’s not true—we all know that bowl of rice pudding was more in line with the size of a toddler.”
Doesn’t my way sound much more relatable? I know it makes me feel more connected to my child, and to my full-panel maternity yoga pants.
I think one thing is clear: When I’m looking for a follow-up project to I Just Want to Pee Alone (You’ve bought your copy, right? See how I slid that in there?), I have a clear future in pregnancy guide authorship. Or tri-state dessert reviews.
In the meantime, I have a lot to look forward to. I’m about to hit Week 28—when my child will weigh as much as a Chinese cabbage. I mean, an extra-large pound cake with chocolate frosting.