The Royal Pregnancy: Bring on the Kate Hate

The internet almost broke today with an official announcement from William and Kate: they’re expecting! Great news for the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, not-so-great news for me. I’ve got so much new-found envy that I am forced to clear my schedule for the rest of the week.

I was in a great mood this morning, too. I’m wearing actual jeans today—not the maternity pants I’ve been rocking for the past three months post-partum—and I was so proud. Sure, I may have needed a shoehorn/Spanx/forklift to get into them and my stomach is still so large it raises suspicion that Dolores may have a twin sister still in there somewhere… but REAL jeans. That’s a big deal (pun here is entirely/hilariously coincidental).

And then I sit my fat behind down at my desk, pull up my homepage, and see a headline with the smiling, sparkling princess announcing she’s preggo. My mind starts to race; I’m thinking of the myriad of awesome things the Duke and Duchess will have and the awful things their privilege will prevent them from ever having to endure. I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

You just know Kate is going to be one of those teeny-tiny pregnant ladies—the kind that look like normal women from behind until they turn around and you are shocked and then kind of secretly gag with jealousy. By the time Dolly was born, I looked like pre-Alli Wynonna Judd. I had thankles. Walking to the fridge generated seismic activity.

This will not be the case for the Grand Duchess. She’ll be radiant and perfect and dressed to the nines in tailor-made couture. She will never know the shame that is pajama jeans. She will never wear a tent-sized maternity dress or be forced to wear the Royal Duke’s flip-flops for a quick run to the Piggly Wiggly because her feet are too swollen to fit into her own shoes…

And that’s just the pregnancy. I’m sure the delivery will be a magical event—church bells will ring, tiny birds will flutter in to brush away any stray strands of hair from the princess’ totally un-sweaty and radiant forehead, boys choirs will sing, and no one anywhere will be concerned with plebian things like medical bills you’ll still be paying off by the time your daughter is in a nursing home.

They’ll have some sort of whimsical nanny, too—one that can calm colic with a jaunty tune, teach the baby to count to ten in 14 different languages by her first birthday, and turn poopie diapers into fairy dust. Kate and William will never argue over whose turn it is to abandon the solace of a warm bed for a 3am feeding. She’ll never wander about the castle in an exhausted haze, covered in spit-up with dirty hair and a physique that’s still so puffy she could be mistaken for the Michelin man…

I’m getting too jealous over here, so I’ll stop. The Royal Birth will be all light and sunshine and smiles, and that’s just fine with me. I’m still pretty fat and frazzled, but that’s okay. I may have had the pregnancy of a peasant, but I ended up with my own princess—and that’s pretty rad.

Okay. I’m still upset about the nanny, though. Can I add that to my Christmas list?