"You shouldn't be wearing those shoes when you're pregnant," she told me.
I looked down, but couldn't see my shoes, so I wasn't sure what pair she was talking about. I said a silent prayer that I wasn't wearing my zebra-print stilettos, because they are my favorite.
"You could trip and fall and crush your baby in those things," she said.
That did not sound good at all.
Perhaps Dorothy had a point. Maybe I wasn't exercising the best judgment by wearing hooker heels after 30 weeks. Still, to wear flats to church would mean that I would no longer be taller than all of the men in the congregation, save my husband, who is 6'4''. I thought long and hard about Dorothy's admonition. In the end, though, I decided that the cost of swapping out my beloved heels for a stylish pair of pregnant woman huaraches was not a price that I was willing to pay, even if it did jeopardize Junior.