Ask me if I’m breastfeeding and then stare obnoxiously at my chest. I know they’re big, but they can’t talk. Yet.
Poop so violently that it shoots out your diaper, up your back, and INTO YOUR HAIR. Who taught you that?
Come between me and that chewy chocolate brownie on the countertop. You don’t want to mess with Hungry Breastfeeding Lady.
Discontinue your supersized fries, flagrantly disregarding the needs of pregnant women everywhere.
Keep referring to my mother’s banana pudding recipe as “that banana cream thingie.” THOU SHALT NOT DISRESPECT THE BANANA PUDDING, INFIDEL!
Wait until I lie down to take a nap before you start chewing on that bone EVER. SO. LOUDLY.
Smear your wet puppy nose on the door of the stainless steel refrigerator ONE. MORE. TIME.
Tell me that I’m not allowed to go into labor until after I run a few errands for you. What do you want me to do, CROSS MY LEGS?
Suggest that I name my baby Ogg Vorbis Armstrong.
Ask me if you can touch my belly button. I’ll just go ahead and ask you to shrivel up and die.