The first pregnant woman I remember seeing as a child was a stranger at Powell's Bookstore in Portland, a place with the timeless energy of an enormous castle treasury. Tall windows cast beams of evening light across her rounded figure, softly illuminated by swirls of sparkling book-dust. She browsed the parenting section in a blue patchwork dress, her disheveled golden hair framing her face like an angel.

From that moment, I was captivated: I knew that pregnancy must be a magical experience.

Then, as most fairy tales come to an end, I grew up, got married, and got fat, I mean, er, pregnant.

As grateful as I was to participate in making that little miracle, I'd be the first to admit pregnancy was not what had imagined. Sure, I'd heard of the potential nausea, sore breasts, heartburn, swelling, and fatigue. But I figured, heck, I was young, hip and healthy: I would just breeze through a few mild symptoms, my angelic glow intact.

By seven months along, I had already gained 40 pounds. Needless to say, my self-confidence really took a blow. This was not the image of the flowing maternal goddess I had hoped for.

Luckily, the utter joy/terror of caring for a newborn soon swept my pregnancy disappointments into the past. The stretch marks and hormones began to fade, and we got busy raising our little girl.

Still, in the quiet recesses of my mind, I knew: next time would be different.

And sure enough, several years

later, one exciting trip to pee on a stick and I knew I'd gotten my chance again.

Things started off great: I hiked through the spring, swam through the summer and even suppressed my ice-cream cravings for fresh fruit in the fall. But as I rounded month eight, I couldn't help feel that those old maternal insecurities were coming back with a vengeance.

I wondered, Why is it that no matter what shape a woman is in, she is never content to enjoy it?

And just then, a confident voice answered me: "You need more Omega-3s."

Huh? "You know, Omega-3 fatty acids build better brain cells for you and the baby."

Ahh. Now I remembered. The peanut gallery! Yet another well-meaning stranger in the grocery isle was there for me, and ready to put in their best two cents.

The peanut gallery tends to be the most irritating and longest-lasting of all pregnancy side effects. I have begun to understand that although pregnancy is special, intensely personal condition, it is one that thrusts a woman suddenly and irreversibly into the public eye. No matter how confident a woman may be through her nine-month ordeal, the peanut gallery support-system is there to put a stop to it.

Here are a few of the casual comments I have actually heard (and the things I wish I'd said):

"Are you pregnant?" (At two months along) Why, do I look fat?

"Are you pregnant?" (At nine months along) Are you kidding?

"Is this your first?" If not, will you spare me the unwanted advice?

"Was this planned?" What difference does it make? It is definitely the plan now!

"So, how much weight have you gained?" You tell me your weight first.

"Are you sure it's not twins in there?" Wow, I better double check that with my doctor, thanks for alerting me about how huge I am!

"How's your sex life?" Are you kidding me? How is yours?

"You're going to name her that?" You may hate it, but that name belongs to someone we love, so back off.

"Are you ready to pop that one out yet or what?" Let's talk about your privates instead. Do you need to poop?

After such a personal barrage of questions, it is no wonder pregnant women are prone to fits of tears. Our every move is under a microscope, and it doesn't stop there.

I've been equally floored by the surge of old-wives tales supposedly constituting wise advice. Seemingly smart, educated folks will offer earnest "gems" that should have been buried as cultural myths when the world was still flat.

Here are a few I've have heard:

"If your belly is itchy (or if you have heartburn), she'll have a lot of hair."

"If mama's belly is up high, it's a boy. If mama looks ugly, it's a girl."

"If you don't eat all your cravings, she'll be born with her tongue sticking out."

"If you eat spicy food you'll make your baby cry."

"If you hold your arms over your head, you'll knot the umbilical cord."

"When your belly button "pops" it means that baby is done!"

After delicately unraveling the swarms of advice I've received, I'm determined to put an end to my mental agony. Only two truly useful gems remain: "This too will pass," and "let it be."

Most of the comments from the peanut gallery and old wives are meaningless, and given innocently.

This week, as I wrap up this story, we wait eagerly for the arrival of our second child any day. I feel huge, swollen, tired, and completely beautiful beyond compare. I muse about all the things I will miss: the belly kicks, the constant company, the surging sense of purpose. I wonder if I will even miss the company of strangers asking me to rub my belly for luck. I believe I will.

After all my complaining, it has occurred to me that I have begun to regard these folks as sort of an extended, dysfunctional family, looking out for me, opening doors and offering me seats and yes, lots of wild advice. And suddenly, I feel confident, free from the criticism of the peanut gallery, for now.

features@sgvn.com

Darndest things people say to a pregnant woman:

"Are you pregnant?" (At nine months along) Are you kidding?

"Was this planned?" What difference does it make, it is definitely the plan now!

"So, how much weight have you gained?" You tell me your weight first.

"Are you sure it's not twins in there?" Wow, I better double check that with my doctor, thanks for alerting me about how huge I am!

"If you eat spicy food you'll make your baby cry."