Oh Frank, what did you do to the penguins now?

"Stop supporting me at once!" I have an overwhelming urge to scream at the top of my lungs, to write in all caps on emails, to repeat as my status on my Facebook, to mumble under my breath to my ally, the Viking, sitting next to me so that the rest of the party won't hear, to mime in grand gestures, to interpret into creative movement to be performed by someone other than the very non-dancing me, and to have printed on a t-shirt in big bold letters strategically placed right across my pregnant belly (the letters, not the t-shirt, I'm pretty sure I'd like to wear the shirt. If I could fit it of course, which at the moment is a precarious issue).

"What in the Frank and his penguin minions?" you might think. And I understand, I do (though not about Frank and his penguins. Why not giraffes? Or hyenas? No one ever thinks about the hyenas).

But see. There's support and then there's support.

As much as I love comments from people telling me their babies were born far too early and were nonetheless completely alright, the hugs (preferably virtual), the happy 'my sister-in-law who has Down too just graduated from high-school,' or the double-edged 'congratulations on your pregnancy, are you having heartburn yet?' (and I do love those, remember that!), I just cannot handle the 'I imagine you're going through a really tough time mentally and physically and we really hope everything goes okay anyway.'

Can you decipher the difference? Because I for sure as golfing hyenas (Go hyenas! The underrepresented canine/feline or something of the sort [I will not get sidetracked Googling hyenas. Not again]) can. And I'm so tired of support.

Completely and utterly DONE with it.

I am not having a hard time with the diagnosis of Down syndrome. Really, I'm not.

I am excited to meet my daughter, and hold her, and raise her, and love her. I am delirious with joy that I am expecting a child, our child. I am oddly comfortable with my pregnant waddle. I feel pure, unadulterated love every time this tiny being inside me uses my bladder as a punching bag (even when I had a bladder infection). I watch with joy the places where my belly skin was stitched to my abdomen in two surgeries suddenly pop out and sort of smooth out (although not really. It's a regular battlefield, I tell you) because that means she's growing and getting stronger. Every time I come up to a full week without the placenta completely conking out on us, I practically cry of joy (and they're not those big, reserved-for-people-who-will-not-let-me-board-my-flight tears either). I look forward to shooting (That's how they exit, correct?) something pinkish and screaming out of my vagina (or to enjoying the high whilst a doctor fishes that pinkish something out of my belly through yet another opening in my abdomen, should the birth come down to a c-section) more than I've ever looked forward to a cup of coffee, or sex for that matter (cups and cups of it, in fact. Yes, sex.).

I am happy.  

I want to hear and read CONGRATULATIONS in big, disgustingly baby-pink letters, not 'I can't even imagine what you must be going through, hang in there!'

Just because you think you couldn't handle something, don't assume I feel the same.

I am superwoman, after all. Well, no. Just happy.

Am I required to note the pregnancy weeks in that preggo-code I see all over the place? I don't feel like doing that, so we'll just say this was taken the same day I banged my toe on the futon base, broke it and howled for a good five minutes. Roughly half an hour later, to be more exact-ish.