This is genius! As someone who does 90% of Christmas shopping online, I am giddy at this welcome development in consumer and environmental friendliness.

Amazon has introduced Frustration-Free packaging. Items which are normally wired, stapled, taped, glued, or otherwise ridiculously sealed in their boxes can now be purchased without inspiring Wrap Rage.

Any parent who has ever had to retrieve a screwdriver from the garage to take Barbie’s horse out of a box should applaud. Forcefully.

The first time I used an Expecting Mother parking spot in this current pregnancy was when I was only six weeks along.

Only my husband and I knew I was pregnant at the time. I certainly didn’t look pregnant to the rest of the world. Any witnesses must have thought I was simply being obnoxious by stealing a spot meant for a much more rotund and achy pregnant lady. Maybe I did. There could have been a 43-week-pregnant lady with stretch marks on her scalp, driving to the mall in her slippers to walk the baby out (ha!) and I deprived her of her well-earned spot near the main food court entrance.

Ever notice the most Expecting Mother spots are near the food court entrance? Smart.

Why did I commit such a brazen act of thievery?

My only excuse is that it was an act of audacious optimism and entitlement. I remember seeing the open spot, thinking of my little grain of rice deep inside, and plunging my Suburban deep between the yellow lines without a second thought. But as I walked into the mall, a deeper and more disturbing thought occurred to me:

Good for you. This may be your only overt act of pregnancy you get this time, self. The baby has plenty of time to die…

In other words, I better milk every moment before it was snatched away, again.

When I was about 20 weeks pregnant, I attended a conference at the Pepsi Center in downtown Denver. I rode the light rail several times in two days, sometimes for quite a distance. I was obviously pregnant, but not big by any standards. I looked 20 weeks pregnant, not a second more.

The train was usually crowded. Each time I boarded, I was offered a seat. I felt like a fraud for smiling and sitting. But I sat, making sure to position myself in a manner that best showed my belly to the other passengers. See, strangers? Entitled. Deserving. You stand. I sit.

I’d look out the window at passing abandoned and grafitti-soaked factories, windowless adult book stores, and a shiny new Costco. They helped me consider ruin and rebirth. Not really. I don’t go around having deep thoughts inspired by urban decay anymore. That was high school.

I’d look out the window and wonder if my baby would be born alive.

He was alive on the trains. I’d feel him kickle me. Sitting down was the best position to feel. I didn’t need to sit.

I needed to sit.

Last night, I attended a soccer match between the US National Team and Guatemala. It was a cold, blustery night. My bright red non-maternity peacoat struggled to contain my belly. I couldn’t leap to my feet at the numerous near-goals and only managed to stand for one of the two actual U.S. goals. I gnawed on a big cheesesteak sandwich. I waddled up the stairs with my husband right before halftime to get hot mini donuts and cocoa. My belly protruded into the crowd, parting the sea of cold and crazy soccer fans in my way. I was self-conscious.

I thought it was wise to walk during halftime to promote circulation and stay warm. The crowd thinned at one point and I looked over to see a young couple in their early twenties, obviously laughing at me. I heard the guy say something about my belly. I looked at them in the eye, patted myself, and smiled. As we continued by them, my husband whispered, “They were making fun of you.”

I told him I knew and laughed to show I didn’t care.

I think I did care, a little.

They had no idea how far I have gone during this pregnancy to feel it entirely, in my body, my mind, my soul. I was just a joke in a red coat.

We returned to our seats.

The baby kicked hard.