Parisian pregnancy privileges.

I think whoever says pregnancy is beautiful is full of crap. I assure you that it is miraculous, incredible, awkward, uncomfortable, amazing, and interesting. Kind of like a science experiment. Or puberty. But it ain’t pretty, people. Your feet turn into sausages, your boobs get all out of control, and there are lots of strange bodily functions involved. It’s gross.

But that’s not to say growing a baby human doesn’t have some perks. Especially if you live in Paris. People here seem to go above and beyond the call of duty when they see me waddling their way, like the helpful store clerk who told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to take the stairs and led me to the elevator.

Or the very nice lady who watched me haul myself up onto a barstool at lunch, then marched all the way across the restaurant, pulled me off the chair and gave me her table.

People everywhere are very concerned about me sitting, which I have to say is pretty awesome, even if I don’t feel like sitting. Folks on the metro can’t wait to give me their seats, and they look downright offended if I tell them non merci.

I also get to cut in line, which is a miracle in and of itself in this land where people are notorious line-cutters. Pre-bébé, the Parisians would have no problem running over my foot with their cart as they pushed their way to cash register, ignoring me and the 50 or so people waiting patiently.

But oh how the tables have turned! Mwwaahhahahahaha! Now I get pulled out of the bathroom line and allowed to go first, called from the rear of the queue at H&M to try my clothes on in an extra-large dressing room, even ushered through the VIP security check at museums. I knew this baby was good for something!

But the joke is that the Parisians are happy to help out a pregnant lady, but as soon as le bébé arrives, no one wants to see you again. Restaurants especially. Watching a waiter look at an incoming stroller is like seeing one of Roald Dahl’s witches sniffing out a nearby child. Zay smell of dog poo and vill disturb our foie gras!

So I better enjoy my premier status while I can.