It has
been fourteen-plus years since I've had need for/interest in/room on my
bookshelf for books on pregnancy, or for any of the
stuff that immediately follows pregnancy. These days I am much more
likely to be found in the Women's Health Section ("Is It
Menopause, or Are You Just Really REALLY Cranky?") or the
Language & Writing Section ("Yo! Secra! That 
Novel Isn't Gonna Write Itself!")
or the Self-Improvement Section ("Chicken Soup and Valium
for the Executive Ass' Soul"). Books about fetal development,
or about breastfeeding, or about the Ornery Ones/Terrible
Twos/Threatening Threes
don't really *do* a lot for me, at this stage of the game.
But this was a special situation.
There were three other women standing nearby, browsing the same book section. All three of them were much younger than I am; all three were quite visibly pregnant; all three were obvious first-timers. How could I tell? They looked well-rested, for one thing. (Plus one of them looked like she was actually considering "Childbirth for Dummies.") We were all very courteous and deferential toward each other: lots of polite smiles, lots of excuse me excuse me excuse mes, plenty of allowance for plenty of personal space. Who knows? Maybe they thought I was one of "them" ... one of those elegant, older career-types, maybe, who postpones motherhood until midlife. But I still felt uncomfortably out of my element.
And old.
And beentheredonethat.
And, frankly, sorta silly.
In fact, it was all I could do to resist saying to these other women, These books aren't for ME!! I KNOW all this stuff already!! They're for my daughter!! But of course that would be publicly admitting that I'm on the road to grandmotherhood.
And I'm not quite *there* yet, in my head. OR on my website.