Random and semi-random strangers sometimes feel the need to comment on my gravid state:

PARENT IN ROOM 3: (in Portugese) “You’re having a boy! When are you due?”
ME: “Oh, I’m having a girl! In about a month!”
PARENT: “No, you’re having a boy! Because he’s all out in front! That’s a boy for sure!”

Or, as I am slowly making my way around the Charles River for a “walk,” i.e. slower-than-slow ramble round:

DUDE ON BIKE: “Whoa, easy there, girl, don’t want you to pop as I fly by.”
ME: “No, worries, you can pass.”
DUDE: “No, I don’t want to be responsible for your water breaking or nothin’.”
ME: “Um, ok, thanks.”

Or, at clinic:

TEENAGER: “How many months are you? 3 months? 4 months?”
ME: “About 8 months.”
TEENAGER: “No way, cuz, like my sister, she bigger than you and she only 6 months!”
ME: “Well, everyone’s different.”
TEENAGER: “I want me a baby, too, you know.”
ME (inner monologue): “Why is this conversation going this way? I need to get her on birth control.”

Alternatively, random comments from family members:

BROTHER: “Your feet are disgusting.”
ME: “I know.”
BROTHER: “They look like Hobbit feet.”
ME: “No they don’t. They’re not hairy like Hobbit feet.”
BROTHER: “No, they’re Hobbit feet. They are exactly the way Tolkien describes them in the book: small and swollen.”