Unfortunately for me, in my younger years there were no famously brilliant spokespeople for young single mothers. How lucky would I have been if Bristol Palin was a guest speaker at my high school pep rally? How would my life have been different if my principal was willing to pay Ms. Palin a small fortune for her tale of hypocrisy designed to convince us impressionable young girls why it was ok for her, but definitely not ok for the rest of us to be having sex? Sounds a little to me like the pot calling the kettle slutty.
At the very least though, I’d have had the chance to ask her the burning question we’ve all been dying to know. And that question, my friends, is after coming to terms with the awful mistake of getting pregnant in the first place, why she would then go on to make a second terrible decision and actually choose to name her child Tripp? I mean trip, incidentally, is what she would have had to do in order to fall upon that arrogant douche bag that got her pregnant in the first place. And to be completely honest, I’m glad I wasn’t the only one who tripped and fell on a dead beat penis. In fact, I was quickly tiring of carrying that burning torch for America.
The truth of the matter is that my life would not have been different. The decisions I had made that led me to this point were going to change my life, sure. But no amount of youth church activities and sacrament meetings would have tamed the evil temptress within me. I was going to learn this lesson someday no matter how many forces had tried to steer me clear of it.
As I realized these things I instantly felt the kind of relief inside myself that can only be experienced by taking your bra off at the end of a long day or having a bowel movement.
I lay uncomfortably in that hospital bed wedged between my past and my future for almost an entire day, cursing that bitch, Eve, for disobediently eating the fruit in the Garden of Eden, plaguing me to be a mortal woman and to feel the labors of my own forbidden indulgences when the doctor came in and declared that it was finally time to push.
In hindsight it has hit me like a sack of balls on more than one occasion that the delivery room wasn’t the best place to be giving my unborn son’s already “absentee” father the opportunity to be a dad. But in my defense, I was under the potent effects of pregnancy hormones and pain relief medications and the mixture of the two had proven to be a tad stronger than your average everyday cocktail. And since he had played such an important part in the conception, I invited him in to be a part of the birth. Not my best idea. For the record, nothing spells awkward like spreading your legs and wet farting in front of your mother and the guy who knocked you up. I had heard from many trusted friends that when the time came to push it would be a natural instinct that I wouldn’t be able to ignore. And to those who led me to believe such lies I say, F YOU! There was no bearing down, no feelings of relief from pushing and still no freaking baby. Just lots of wet farts and awkwardness and wishing it could be over.
I was hardly able to contain my excitement at the beauty of the words “emergency c-section” as they rolled off the doctors lips. It was high time we got the ball rolling on this thing. I was beyond excited. Not only did I get to finally have this baby but I also got to legally experience some of the best drugs out there! So when the nurse walked in with a razor and a bowl of water and indicated that she’d be shaving me for free I could no longer hide my feelings of gratitude toward this blessed event in my life. It was like pulling through the Taco Bell drive through and realizing they didn’t charge me for my Mexican pizza.
After thanking her profusely and filling her in that it had been a while since I could see “down there” to do it myself, she looked at me oddly and then left the room. It was then that I realized that my free Mexican pizza was missing the cheese. She was only planning on shaving the portion the doctors would need to cut for the surgery and I was therefore left with the equivalent of a vagina mullet. Oh well, I thought. At this point I knew that there would never again be anything sexy about my naked body, and I begrudgingly added my vagina mullet in between Janet Jackson’s nipple and all eleven seasons of Seventh Heaven on my mental list of things that should never again see the light of day.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Entry 12: How Do You Spell Relief?
Little did I know that the answer to that last question would inevitably be my breakfast.
I sat staring at the cup of Caster oil as my stomach turned.
“Are you supposed to take this much?” I questioned. It was easily a half a cup that my sister had poured for me while I was upstairs smashing the ants that were crawling up my legs. “Maybe you should be a bartender.” I remarked. Reluctantly, I raised the glass to my mouth and started chugging.
No sooner did I get one gulp down than that one gulp, plus my breakfast – which was no longer lucky or magically delicious – came right back up. And after reading the label I was glad it did! Note to self, I thought, Caster Oil is a laxative and your sister just tried to get you to drink two times the recommended dose. Due to the fact that she had already experienced childbirth and I therefore knew for certain that she was clear about which orifice the baby was supposed to be sliding out of, it was determined that she was either A: drunk or B: evil. Either way she could no longer be considered an ally.
“What the hell was that? Are you trying to kill me?” I asked, annoyed.
“What are you talking about?” she answered. She had obviously never learned that it’s grammatically incorrect to answer a question with another question.
“Oh, never mind!” I was in no mood for arguing. I had gas and these contractions were getting worse. It was clear to us all that the light at the end of the birthing tunnel was becoming brighter.
Even though this was in fact a new experience for me, I had watched enough episodes of A Baby Story on TLC to know that there were way more exciting ways to spend a day of contractions than sitting with my legs in stirrups in a hospital bed waiting for push time. I knew that this was just the beginning and that it could quite possibly be the last time I’d see daylight for a while. I decided to spend my last few moments of freedom doing more entertaining things like throwing Rolaids up in the air and seeing how many times in a row I could catch them in my mouth.
Between contractions I tried to think about what I should be packing in my overnight bag. A cute outfit for baby to come home in, my favorite pillow, a little make up and perhaps a breath mint just in case the good doctor changed his mind about his wife and 3 kids…I was already bored of this. I decided I’d leave the responsibility of packing to someone with less back pain and I settled instead for just a toothbrush. I wanted to get a head start on the teeth brushing situation. From what I had been hearing I would no longer be having the time to do this twice a day like 4 out of 5 dentist recommended; the fifth being the one with kids. I wasn’t sure how much of that nonsense I actually believed. At this point I still thought it was just the best excuse in the world for lacking basic oral hygiene.
We decided to grab a quick bite to eat since I had flushed my breakfast down the toilet with the Caster oil. From there we’d stop by my husband’s boyfriend’s BBQ and when that got boring we’d head to the hospital. Lunch was uneventful but I was excited for the BBQ. Her boyfriend was a wannabe firefighter and I was sure he would have a lot of drunken single friends who still had all their teeth wandering around his BBQ with their shirts off – AKA: husband material. Momma’s mojo was comin’ back! There’s no time like the present to get yourself back out there, I thought, as I threw another Rolaid in the air, missed it with my mouth and accidentally let it bounce off my forehead and into my sisters Chai latte.
I sat staring at the cup of Caster oil as my stomach turned.
“Are you supposed to take this much?” I questioned. It was easily a half a cup that my sister had poured for me while I was upstairs smashing the ants that were crawling up my legs. “Maybe you should be a bartender.” I remarked. Reluctantly, I raised the glass to my mouth and started chugging.
No sooner did I get one gulp down than that one gulp, plus my breakfast – which was no longer lucky or magically delicious – came right back up. And after reading the label I was glad it did! Note to self, I thought, Caster Oil is a laxative and your sister just tried to get you to drink two times the recommended dose. Due to the fact that she had already experienced childbirth and I therefore knew for certain that she was clear about which orifice the baby was supposed to be sliding out of, it was determined that she was either A: drunk or B: evil. Either way she could no longer be considered an ally.
“What the hell was that? Are you trying to kill me?” I asked, annoyed.
“What are you talking about?” she answered. She had obviously never learned that it’s grammatically incorrect to answer a question with another question.
“Oh, never mind!” I was in no mood for arguing. I had gas and these contractions were getting worse. It was clear to us all that the light at the end of the birthing tunnel was becoming brighter.
Even though this was in fact a new experience for me, I had watched enough episodes of A Baby Story on TLC to know that there were way more exciting ways to spend a day of contractions than sitting with my legs in stirrups in a hospital bed waiting for push time. I knew that this was just the beginning and that it could quite possibly be the last time I’d see daylight for a while. I decided to spend my last few moments of freedom doing more entertaining things like throwing Rolaids up in the air and seeing how many times in a row I could catch them in my mouth.
Between contractions I tried to think about what I should be packing in my overnight bag. A cute outfit for baby to come home in, my favorite pillow, a little make up and perhaps a breath mint just in case the good doctor changed his mind about his wife and 3 kids…I was already bored of this. I decided I’d leave the responsibility of packing to someone with less back pain and I settled instead for just a toothbrush. I wanted to get a head start on the teeth brushing situation. From what I had been hearing I would no longer be having the time to do this twice a day like 4 out of 5 dentist recommended; the fifth being the one with kids. I wasn’t sure how much of that nonsense I actually believed. At this point I still thought it was just the best excuse in the world for lacking basic oral hygiene.
We decided to grab a quick bite to eat since I had flushed my breakfast down the toilet with the Caster oil. From there we’d stop by my husband’s boyfriend’s BBQ and when that got boring we’d head to the hospital. Lunch was uneventful but I was excited for the BBQ. Her boyfriend was a wannabe firefighter and I was sure he would have a lot of drunken single friends who still had all their teeth wandering around his BBQ with their shirts off – AKA: husband material. Momma’s mojo was comin’ back! There’s no time like the present to get yourself back out there, I thought, as I threw another Rolaid in the air, missed it with my mouth and accidentally let it bounce off my forehead and into my sisters Chai latte.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Entry 11: Let It Be.
I was now dilated to 2cm for the second week in a row. This was the third bit of bad news I had heard come out of Dr. Dream Crusher’s mouth. The first was, “My wife,” which was about 3 times easier to hear than, “just had triplets.”
I was grumpy. I was starving. I looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I was beginning to understand how Kirstie Alley must feel. In an effort to save my sanity I decided to do what my crazy English friends, John, Paul, George and Ringo had been trying to tell me all these years and just let it be. So I did what any peace-loving, mature adult would do; I flipped off the lady in the drive through for taking too long, ate my weight in beans and cheese and went home to cry to my mom about my backache.
“Oh honey, I’m so sorry that you’re so uncomfortable.” My mother sympathized. “Tell me more about your backache.”
I took this opportunity to vent completely.
“Oh Mom, it’s TERRIBLE! It just throbs and aches and…sometimes more than others but…it just never goes away…” I said, trying to piece together all of my random thoughts.
“Oh dear, that sounds dreadful! So…does it feel like period cramps only worse?”
“Yes…”
“And, does it, like, come and go?”
“Yes…”
“And, is it, like, getting progressively more intense?”
And that’s when I peed myself for the second time that day. By the look on my face you’d have thought she just informed me that someone had finally created an everlasting stick of licorice. Damn that woman – smart as can be. What the hell did I need a doctor for? I realized suddenly that everything I needed to know about childbirth my mom had already experienced 6 times over! Having abruptly come to that realization it also dawned on me that it really should come as a shock to no one that I was fuzzy on the details of birth control…
But anyway, who cares! I was experiencing contractions the whole time I just didn’t know it! Could it be that I was finally in labor?
Due to my mother’s chronic insomnia she had no plans for the remainder of the evening and stayed up to all hours helping me count and record my new found contractions. To my disappointment there was nothing consistent about them and by morning I was experiencing the same amount of discomfort at the same intervals as before with no progress.
Determined and not quite ready to give up hope, I called in for reinforcements.
My sister was the best husband in the world. She dropped everything to come and make fun of me splashing around in the bathtub like a baby beluga and count my contractions. At the time, dropping everything for her included chemistry homework and MySpace but I welcomed her selflessness nonetheless. She had been everything I wanted in a husband. She nursed my bloody noses, endured countless trips to Taco Bell and she even contained her horrified reaction when I told her of my recurring dream of having sex with Jim Carrey in a blood filled coffin. This was great practice for her actually. It was like foreshadowing for later in life when she would actually have an incestuous, pregnant lesbian dream starring herself and yours truly - which, incidentally, makes bloody sex with Jim Carrey seam almost plausible.
Moments later my other sister showed up. I thought of her in a slightly less loving way but not because she wasn’t a great person. It was because she was constantly making the rest of us feel inadequate. She’s the type of sister who will call you and warn you that she’s hung over, she hasn’t showered and she looks like hell only to show up moments later perfectly quaffed and beautiful wearing something fabulous with a matching handbag and remind you that she’s been up since dawn packing her children organic lunches, volunteering in their classrooms and feeding the homeless.
After my feet had soaked up the majority of the bath water I got out of the bathtub and laid on the couch with my sisters who were trying to talk me into something I had purposely avoided up until now. They wanted me to drink Caster oil in an attempt to bring on more active labor. I was unsure about drinking any slimy liquids I’d never heard of before but due to my pregnancy induced lack of judgment I was way more easily convinced to do stupid ass things. In the spirit of having this baby before sun down, I decided to put some clothes on and take the drink. After all, what did I have to lose?
I was grumpy. I was starving. I looked like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I was beginning to understand how Kirstie Alley must feel. In an effort to save my sanity I decided to do what my crazy English friends, John, Paul, George and Ringo had been trying to tell me all these years and just let it be. So I did what any peace-loving, mature adult would do; I flipped off the lady in the drive through for taking too long, ate my weight in beans and cheese and went home to cry to my mom about my backache.
“Oh honey, I’m so sorry that you’re so uncomfortable.” My mother sympathized. “Tell me more about your backache.”
I took this opportunity to vent completely.
“Oh Mom, it’s TERRIBLE! It just throbs and aches and…sometimes more than others but…it just never goes away…” I said, trying to piece together all of my random thoughts.
“Oh dear, that sounds dreadful! So…does it feel like period cramps only worse?”
“Yes…”
“And, does it, like, come and go?”
“Yes…”
“And, is it, like, getting progressively more intense?”
And that’s when I peed myself for the second time that day. By the look on my face you’d have thought she just informed me that someone had finally created an everlasting stick of licorice. Damn that woman – smart as can be. What the hell did I need a doctor for? I realized suddenly that everything I needed to know about childbirth my mom had already experienced 6 times over! Having abruptly come to that realization it also dawned on me that it really should come as a shock to no one that I was fuzzy on the details of birth control…
But anyway, who cares! I was experiencing contractions the whole time I just didn’t know it! Could it be that I was finally in labor?
Due to my mother’s chronic insomnia she had no plans for the remainder of the evening and stayed up to all hours helping me count and record my new found contractions. To my disappointment there was nothing consistent about them and by morning I was experiencing the same amount of discomfort at the same intervals as before with no progress.
Determined and not quite ready to give up hope, I called in for reinforcements.
My sister was the best husband in the world. She dropped everything to come and make fun of me splashing around in the bathtub like a baby beluga and count my contractions. At the time, dropping everything for her included chemistry homework and MySpace but I welcomed her selflessness nonetheless. She had been everything I wanted in a husband. She nursed my bloody noses, endured countless trips to Taco Bell and she even contained her horrified reaction when I told her of my recurring dream of having sex with Jim Carrey in a blood filled coffin. This was great practice for her actually. It was like foreshadowing for later in life when she would actually have an incestuous, pregnant lesbian dream starring herself and yours truly - which, incidentally, makes bloody sex with Jim Carrey seam almost plausible.
Moments later my other sister showed up. I thought of her in a slightly less loving way but not because she wasn’t a great person. It was because she was constantly making the rest of us feel inadequate. She’s the type of sister who will call you and warn you that she’s hung over, she hasn’t showered and she looks like hell only to show up moments later perfectly quaffed and beautiful wearing something fabulous with a matching handbag and remind you that she’s been up since dawn packing her children organic lunches, volunteering in their classrooms and feeding the homeless.
After my feet had soaked up the majority of the bath water I got out of the bathtub and laid on the couch with my sisters who were trying to talk me into something I had purposely avoided up until now. They wanted me to drink Caster oil in an attempt to bring on more active labor. I was unsure about drinking any slimy liquids I’d never heard of before but due to my pregnancy induced lack of judgment I was way more easily convinced to do stupid ass things. In the spirit of having this baby before sun down, I decided to put some clothes on and take the drink. After all, what did I have to lose?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Entry 10: Grass On The Infield
To my amazement, I had not gone blind over night and I was only slightly pissed off to find that my transgression did not produce any consistent contracting.
This kid was more stubborn than I thought.
I missed the days when my persistent sweating didn’t create yellow stains in the ass of my white pants and I could control my flatulence. I was ready to get back to doing things I enjoyed like naked cartwheels and facing backwards when I peed in public restrooms to freak out the lady in the stall next to me. You know that women always check out the shoes in the neighboring stall to compare them to her own. Now days I was lucky if I could even wear shoes. If I did they had to be secured to my feet with masking tape before sunrise or my feet would swell to unthinkable proportions and tear through the laces like a Sketchers version of The Incredible Hulk. And ever since I had slipped and fell down a concrete stairwell, spending a day in the hospital with a broken rib, my doctor had taken me off sandals until further notice.
Due to the fact that it was July and my parents lived on an ant hill, there was no comfort in sight for me. Wearing shoes made me sweat. My sweat attracted the ants. Being barefoot made me swell which made me sweat which attracted the ants…F this.
And F this back ache I couldn’t get rid of.
Thankfully I had a doctor’s appointment and I didn’t think anybody would notice if I “accidentally” showed up an hour early to sit in the air conditioned office for a while with my feet up while eating grapes and nonchalantly tearing out and pocketing my favorite articles from their old copies of Parenting magazine. When it was finally time for me to see the doctor I noticed that before handing me a paper gown and asking me to strip down, they put me in an unfamiliar room to wait for an unfamiliar doctor. I immediately ran to the front desk to do some further investigating.
“Who is this imposter posing as my gynecologist?” I interrogated. “I wasn’t aware my doctor wouldn’t be here. I don’t know this person!”
Lies.
“I’ve never even heard of this guy before!”
More lies. His name was on the building. And, truth be told, I knew who he was.
Now don’t get me wrong - in the way of people I didn’t know probing my vagina and fondling my breasts, I decided as early as my junior year of high school that I preferred that stranger to be male. But I had given up bikini waxing in my sixth month of pregnancy and I had long surpassed the point of being mentally stable enough to blindly guide sharp objects such as a razor toward my vagina. This guy was HOT…I’m talking soap opera hot! I knew at some point he’d be unable to resist my girlish good looks and charm and that eventually he'd beg me to allow him to father my son and purchase for me a nice new set of fun bags with his doctor's salary, but I didn’t want his first impression of my vagina to resemble that of Sasquatch. In the same instant I realized how comfortable I had become using the word vagina.
Thanks to my actual doctor’s horrible decision to spend her July vacationing on a yacht on the water somewhere, Sasquatch would have to do.
Defeated, I waddled back to my exam room to wait, and made a mental note that the backs of these paper exam gowns don’t fasten themselves. The next time I burst from my exam room sporting a paper gown in an angry fit of rage, I would have to remember to do it before I take my pants off.
This kid was more stubborn than I thought.
I missed the days when my persistent sweating didn’t create yellow stains in the ass of my white pants and I could control my flatulence. I was ready to get back to doing things I enjoyed like naked cartwheels and facing backwards when I peed in public restrooms to freak out the lady in the stall next to me. You know that women always check out the shoes in the neighboring stall to compare them to her own. Now days I was lucky if I could even wear shoes. If I did they had to be secured to my feet with masking tape before sunrise or my feet would swell to unthinkable proportions and tear through the laces like a Sketchers version of The Incredible Hulk. And ever since I had slipped and fell down a concrete stairwell, spending a day in the hospital with a broken rib, my doctor had taken me off sandals until further notice.
Due to the fact that it was July and my parents lived on an ant hill, there was no comfort in sight for me. Wearing shoes made me sweat. My sweat attracted the ants. Being barefoot made me swell which made me sweat which attracted the ants…F this.
And F this back ache I couldn’t get rid of.
Thankfully I had a doctor’s appointment and I didn’t think anybody would notice if I “accidentally” showed up an hour early to sit in the air conditioned office for a while with my feet up while eating grapes and nonchalantly tearing out and pocketing my favorite articles from their old copies of Parenting magazine. When it was finally time for me to see the doctor I noticed that before handing me a paper gown and asking me to strip down, they put me in an unfamiliar room to wait for an unfamiliar doctor. I immediately ran to the front desk to do some further investigating.
“Who is this imposter posing as my gynecologist?” I interrogated. “I wasn’t aware my doctor wouldn’t be here. I don’t know this person!”
Lies.
“I’ve never even heard of this guy before!”
More lies. His name was on the building. And, truth be told, I knew who he was.
Now don’t get me wrong - in the way of people I didn’t know probing my vagina and fondling my breasts, I decided as early as my junior year of high school that I preferred that stranger to be male. But I had given up bikini waxing in my sixth month of pregnancy and I had long surpassed the point of being mentally stable enough to blindly guide sharp objects such as a razor toward my vagina. This guy was HOT…I’m talking soap opera hot! I knew at some point he’d be unable to resist my girlish good looks and charm and that eventually he'd beg me to allow him to father my son and purchase for me a nice new set of fun bags with his doctor's salary, but I didn’t want his first impression of my vagina to resemble that of Sasquatch. In the same instant I realized how comfortable I had become using the word vagina.
Thanks to my actual doctor’s horrible decision to spend her July vacationing on a yacht on the water somewhere, Sasquatch would have to do.
Defeated, I waddled back to my exam room to wait, and made a mental note that the backs of these paper exam gowns don’t fasten themselves. The next time I burst from my exam room sporting a paper gown in an angry fit of rage, I would have to remember to do it before I take my pants off.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Entry 9: Baby Makin' Music
As I sat soaking in my oatmeal bath, staring at the mountain that had grown of a molehill right in front of my eyes, I couldn’t help but look back and take a personal inventory of the events I had endured here in this crazy world called Pregnant.
It had started out cold and lonely, with a douche nozzle of a boyfriend who pointed and laughed when I unknowingly had toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Not that I was the poster child for maturity or anything. I mean, at the budding age of 21 I had barely endured enough life to even know what brand of beer I preferred.
Although I had much to learn about this new world there were some things I knew already for certain. I knew that this innocent life inside of me was going to change everything. I knew that despite what my stepdad thought and, of course, all of the others who weren’t quite bold enough to admit they felt the same, my life wasn’t ruined and it was far from over. He was right about a couple things though. Thing 1: It was going to be really freaking hard and Thing 2: I had no idea just how hard.
But in my defense, I was in no position to be worrying myself with the aftermath. And actually, all I had been allowed to do for the first half of my pregnancy was to stew over it and worry about it. I was done beating myself up over it. At this point, to deter anymore early signs of aging, I was only allowing myself to worry about one thing at a time. And currently the worry was centered upon labor. Not the labor itself but how I was going to get myself to go into labor. I had a couple tricks up my sleeve (thanks Google!) but I was initially reluctant to try anything too strange.
I tried nesting. I washed all of the baby’s clothes, folded them into sweet little color and age appropriate piles and nestled them snugly into the shelves where I decided they’d belong. I cleaned my closet, scrubbed the tub and attempted to muscle all of my furniture around my room to find what would best fit both me and the baby. I read to my belly and sang to it hoping the baby would claw its way out in defense.
But alas – there were no contractions to be found.
“Thanks a lot you lazy ass! You’re just like your father!” I yelled. And then that little shit kicked me in the crotch! I immediately realized that it was too soon to start verbally abusing my son and I had better save that for when his feet weren’t so close to my vagina.
I decided instead to move on with the list of labor inducers.
Next up…nipple stimulation. This would be interesting. I was afraid of myself topless ever since my first lactating experience had come to pass. I kept finding a random and awkward drip down my shirt and after I assured myself that it was not raining inside the house in July and my evil sister wasn’t gleaking on me, I finally discovered that the mysterious drip was coming from the leaky faucet attached to my chest. I was beginning to lactate. There was absolutely nothing sexy about me anymore. I would have to start calling them breasts instead of fun bags. After all, as soon as the baby was born they’d be more like Tupperware anyway. I took one last glance at myself topless in the mirror, made a mental note to tweeze my nipple whiskers and decided to move on down the list.
(Warning! The following paragraphs are for mature audiences only. Reader discretion, especially if your name rhymes with Shmauretta and you gave birth to me, is advised. )
Next up…sex. Well that was going to be hard. Ever since I took my oath of celibacy I had given no interest to the thought of sex with a man. But desperate times called for desperate measures and I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.
I decided that since I was with child, I would treat myself like a lady tonight. So I took a shower and shaved my legs – what I could reach of them anyway – in an attempt to make myself a little more attractive for me. I treated myself to dinner and dessert and since I had behaved like the perfect gentleman I thought I deserved a little nookie. After all it was sex with someone I loved – me – and in the spirit of bringing on contractions I really saw nothing wrong with it.
I wore my silky pajamas to bed that night. I turned on some Barry White, whispered sweet nothings to myself, pulled out Old Faithful and tried to make a night of it. It was really hard to seal the deal too! For the record, there’s nothing more uncomfortable than having sex with yourself next door to your mother.
It had started out cold and lonely, with a douche nozzle of a boyfriend who pointed and laughed when I unknowingly had toilet paper stuck to my shoe. Not that I was the poster child for maturity or anything. I mean, at the budding age of 21 I had barely endured enough life to even know what brand of beer I preferred.
Although I had much to learn about this new world there were some things I knew already for certain. I knew that this innocent life inside of me was going to change everything. I knew that despite what my stepdad thought and, of course, all of the others who weren’t quite bold enough to admit they felt the same, my life wasn’t ruined and it was far from over. He was right about a couple things though. Thing 1: It was going to be really freaking hard and Thing 2: I had no idea just how hard.
But in my defense, I was in no position to be worrying myself with the aftermath. And actually, all I had been allowed to do for the first half of my pregnancy was to stew over it and worry about it. I was done beating myself up over it. At this point, to deter anymore early signs of aging, I was only allowing myself to worry about one thing at a time. And currently the worry was centered upon labor. Not the labor itself but how I was going to get myself to go into labor. I had a couple tricks up my sleeve (thanks Google!) but I was initially reluctant to try anything too strange.
I tried nesting. I washed all of the baby’s clothes, folded them into sweet little color and age appropriate piles and nestled them snugly into the shelves where I decided they’d belong. I cleaned my closet, scrubbed the tub and attempted to muscle all of my furniture around my room to find what would best fit both me and the baby. I read to my belly and sang to it hoping the baby would claw its way out in defense.
But alas – there were no contractions to be found.
“Thanks a lot you lazy ass! You’re just like your father!” I yelled. And then that little shit kicked me in the crotch! I immediately realized that it was too soon to start verbally abusing my son and I had better save that for when his feet weren’t so close to my vagina.
I decided instead to move on with the list of labor inducers.
Next up…nipple stimulation. This would be interesting. I was afraid of myself topless ever since my first lactating experience had come to pass. I kept finding a random and awkward drip down my shirt and after I assured myself that it was not raining inside the house in July and my evil sister wasn’t gleaking on me, I finally discovered that the mysterious drip was coming from the leaky faucet attached to my chest. I was beginning to lactate. There was absolutely nothing sexy about me anymore. I would have to start calling them breasts instead of fun bags. After all, as soon as the baby was born they’d be more like Tupperware anyway. I took one last glance at myself topless in the mirror, made a mental note to tweeze my nipple whiskers and decided to move on down the list.
(Warning! The following paragraphs are for mature audiences only. Reader discretion, especially if your name rhymes with Shmauretta and you gave birth to me, is advised. )
Next up…sex. Well that was going to be hard. Ever since I took my oath of celibacy I had given no interest to the thought of sex with a man. But desperate times called for desperate measures and I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.
I decided that since I was with child, I would treat myself like a lady tonight. So I took a shower and shaved my legs – what I could reach of them anyway – in an attempt to make myself a little more attractive for me. I treated myself to dinner and dessert and since I had behaved like the perfect gentleman I thought I deserved a little nookie. After all it was sex with someone I loved – me – and in the spirit of bringing on contractions I really saw nothing wrong with it.
I wore my silky pajamas to bed that night. I turned on some Barry White, whispered sweet nothings to myself, pulled out Old Faithful and tried to make a night of it. It was really hard to seal the deal too! For the record, there’s nothing more uncomfortable than having sex with yourself next door to your mother.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Entry 8: On Display
For some odd reason many people have been misguided to believe that it is acceptable and appropriate to remind a pregnant woman of her bigness. For example, when my sister was pregnant a few weeks ago I would purposely annoy her by saying things like, “Looks like your t-shirts working overtime today, eh eh eh” with an elbow poke. Or like how my stepbrother would always ask me, “So, I know there’s a baby in your tummy but is your ass also pregnant?” And while these comments are also not considered acceptable, at least they’re coming from someone who you could eventually sneak attack and get even with. For instance, my sister eventually got even by forcing me to watch her kid when she finally went into labor and in the case of my stepbrother, I vowed that as soon as he had kids of his own I’d show them how to use their middle fingers. Luckily for him by the time he finally had kids he was forced to move two hours away from civilization. He says it was for some “job”, but I think we all know it was actually in fear of the war I waged upon his unborn children a few years before.
At any rate, I was nearing the 8 month mark and I was getting big. “Huge” might even be a better description. And everyone in the world wanted to point it out to me as if I wasn’t the one who had to bathe in cocoa butter so my skin wouldn’t spontaneously combust and oil up the door jamb so I could fit through it. As one of my sisters kindly pointed out, due to the fact that my thighs had grown quite fond of each other it would now be considered a fire hazard for me to wear corduroy. As if that perfect bitch knew anything about fat thighs (see also: Mother of the Year). To make matters worse, also compliments of my fat thighs, my camal toe was beginning to look more like a moose knuckle each and every day.
Things were getting ugly and to top it off I had developed a rash that no amount of Benadryl or oatmeal bath could remedy. My skin was stretched to the limit and my belly was starting to look more like a road map pointing south. I finally went to the doctor to see if there was something he could do for me.
I should have known better…
By the time I had been assigned a room and lifted up my blouse for the thousandth time, the nurse had grabbed the doctor, the doctor had grabbed his buddy in the hallway, and I was starting to feel more like a stripper than a patient. If I was going to be put on display like this, I would have to start at least requiring someone to stuff dollar bills down my sweatpants.
“Hey Bob, c’mer…you gotta get a load of this rash!” I was getting tired of being their circus freak. Not until after the entire doctor’s office plus the bum off the street had been invited in to see my insufferable and freakish rash was I told that it was called PUPPs – or more specifically pruritic urticarial papules and plaques of pregnancy – and that my case was significantly worse than anything anyone had ever seen, ever before, ever in the history of rashes…ever. And to top it off they knew of no cause or cure. The only remedy would be to...wait for it...take Benadryl and an oatmeal bath. Hmm…why didn’t I think of that?
But before I could be discharged from this very aggravating, very pointless doctor’s visit, the physician’s assistant came into my room with a camera and - I swear to you the following is not a fabrication - they wanted to take pictures of my rash and put me in a medical journal.
So this is my fifteen minutes of fame, I thought.
And somewhere in the world today, in the good name of science, someone is staring at a picture of me, topless and wearing a dirty Victoria’s Secret sports bra, covered in the rash that broke the record.
Yay me.
At any rate, I was nearing the 8 month mark and I was getting big. “Huge” might even be a better description. And everyone in the world wanted to point it out to me as if I wasn’t the one who had to bathe in cocoa butter so my skin wouldn’t spontaneously combust and oil up the door jamb so I could fit through it. As one of my sisters kindly pointed out, due to the fact that my thighs had grown quite fond of each other it would now be considered a fire hazard for me to wear corduroy. As if that perfect bitch knew anything about fat thighs (see also: Mother of the Year). To make matters worse, also compliments of my fat thighs, my camal toe was beginning to look more like a moose knuckle each and every day.
Things were getting ugly and to top it off I had developed a rash that no amount of Benadryl or oatmeal bath could remedy. My skin was stretched to the limit and my belly was starting to look more like a road map pointing south. I finally went to the doctor to see if there was something he could do for me.
I should have known better…
By the time I had been assigned a room and lifted up my blouse for the thousandth time, the nurse had grabbed the doctor, the doctor had grabbed his buddy in the hallway, and I was starting to feel more like a stripper than a patient. If I was going to be put on display like this, I would have to start at least requiring someone to stuff dollar bills down my sweatpants.
“Hey Bob, c’mer…you gotta get a load of this rash!” I was getting tired of being their circus freak. Not until after the entire doctor’s office plus the bum off the street had been invited in to see my insufferable and freakish rash was I told that it was called PUPPs – or more specifically pruritic urticarial papules and plaques of pregnancy – and that my case was significantly worse than anything anyone had ever seen, ever before, ever in the history of rashes…ever. And to top it off they knew of no cause or cure. The only remedy would be to...wait for it...take Benadryl and an oatmeal bath. Hmm…why didn’t I think of that?
But before I could be discharged from this very aggravating, very pointless doctor’s visit, the physician’s assistant came into my room with a camera and - I swear to you the following is not a fabrication - they wanted to take pictures of my rash and put me in a medical journal.
So this is my fifteen minutes of fame, I thought.
And somewhere in the world today, in the good name of science, someone is staring at a picture of me, topless and wearing a dirty Victoria’s Secret sports bra, covered in the rash that broke the record.
Yay me.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Entry 7: The Price is Wrong, Bitch!
Once the initial surprise wore off that my daughter would in fact be born a boy, I started to view things in a much bluer light. I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my life but being a lady was never one of them – so the more I thought about raising a daughter the more episodes of The Twilight Zone I figured I’d be avoiding by having a boy instead. I also thought it was pretty fun to tell people I currently had both a penis AND a vagina – although I’m pretty sure I’m close to the only person who found that amusing.
I started to think a lot about boy names - with little help from my naïvely adorable eight year old niece. She suggested that I name the baby Jackal Sonny - which I didn’t even think was all that creative. I mean, my 3 year old nephew suggested that my sister name her baby Punkalotta Mujibu – now that’s original! Besides that, Jackal reminded me way too much of Baby Daddy and Sonny just reminder me of Cher. I decided it was unimaginable.
Now I was on to my next shenanigan; my office baby shower.
One darling lady at work had the bright idea to collect money from everyone and buy me a group gift. As I slowly unwrapped and opened what would reveal my Nightmare on Lycra Street, I was horrified to find that instead of a gift, they all pitched in to buy me a large box of shiny pregnancy spandex. Now I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but my idea of pregnant comfort is far from dressing up like a cast member from Xanadu. Imagine how I must have felt trying on my stretchy shorts and sundress to model for the office and attempting to make a face of satisfied excitement. What type of pregnant woman finds comfort in magnifying her ass flaws with spandex? It was bad enough as it was – I already had to tell myself that the reason for the dimples was because my ass was smiling. I hadn't been this disappointed since McDonald's canceled 39 cent cheeseburger Sundays.
I didn’t even go home after work that day; I drove straight to the mall with my girlfriend to dispose of it. The lady at the return counter could not keep her droopy eyes off my stomach. She kept shifting her gaze from my belly to my ring finger. When she saw that a wedding ring was not decorating my finger I sensed the words “illegitimate child” oozing out of her thoughts. I wondered if it would be considered inappropriate to bitch slap a 70 year old woman at a department store return counter. It would be like a female version of Happy Gilmore punching Bob Barker - only pregnant.
In true single mother fashion, I opted instead to take the cash and I then went and bought myself the most obnoxious cubic zirconia I could find. Nobody would ever question the legitimacy of my child again – even if I had to fake it.
I started to think a lot about boy names - with little help from my naïvely adorable eight year old niece. She suggested that I name the baby Jackal Sonny - which I didn’t even think was all that creative. I mean, my 3 year old nephew suggested that my sister name her baby Punkalotta Mujibu – now that’s original! Besides that, Jackal reminded me way too much of Baby Daddy and Sonny just reminder me of Cher. I decided it was unimaginable.
Now I was on to my next shenanigan; my office baby shower.
One darling lady at work had the bright idea to collect money from everyone and buy me a group gift. As I slowly unwrapped and opened what would reveal my Nightmare on Lycra Street, I was horrified to find that instead of a gift, they all pitched in to buy me a large box of shiny pregnancy spandex. Now I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but my idea of pregnant comfort is far from dressing up like a cast member from Xanadu. Imagine how I must have felt trying on my stretchy shorts and sundress to model for the office and attempting to make a face of satisfied excitement. What type of pregnant woman finds comfort in magnifying her ass flaws with spandex? It was bad enough as it was – I already had to tell myself that the reason for the dimples was because my ass was smiling. I hadn't been this disappointed since McDonald's canceled 39 cent cheeseburger Sundays.
I didn’t even go home after work that day; I drove straight to the mall with my girlfriend to dispose of it. The lady at the return counter could not keep her droopy eyes off my stomach. She kept shifting her gaze from my belly to my ring finger. When she saw that a wedding ring was not decorating my finger I sensed the words “illegitimate child” oozing out of her thoughts. I wondered if it would be considered inappropriate to bitch slap a 70 year old woman at a department store return counter. It would be like a female version of Happy Gilmore punching Bob Barker - only pregnant.
In true single mother fashion, I opted instead to take the cash and I then went and bought myself the most obnoxious cubic zirconia I could find. Nobody would ever question the legitimacy of my child again – even if I had to fake it.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Entry 6: Finding out my Daughter had a Penis
By springtime there were many changes going on in my world of Pregnant. Not normally one to welcome warm weather, I have to say it was growing on me…like a yeast infection! The only thing worse than being hot was being hot and sweaty, and I had recently begun to sweat more profusely than a Tijuana hooker at mass. I tried to wear short sleeves but my arms were also pregnant and the last thing I wanted to do was scare any more children than I already had.
At a friend’s weekend BBQ I spent 20 minutes trying to convince a horrified four-year-old that I did not swallow the baby inside of me. I stopped trying after I realized that the truth of how the baby had ended up there was even more petrifying.
I was off sex for good! I had denounced men of all kind; sworn off penises long and wide. It was probably for this reason that I was convinced my little accident would produce for me a baby girl – a tiny, sugary and spicy - hopefully not too bitchy - baby girl.
My brother had 3 daughters before he died way too young and although it was a far cry to think that I’d ever fill his giant shoes, I had high hopes of bringing to the family the next granddaughter. I had romantic visions in my head of teaching my baby girl morals and values and how not to be a shameless hussy – as if I knew. We’d be like a “My Buddy” commercial from the 80’s…
My Buddy My Buddy My Buddy My Buddy…Wherever I go…YOU’RE gunna go!
We’d frolic in the clover patch, hands joined and swinging in circles happily while the sun shined and the birds chirped…I could see it now.
My ultrasound was moments away and for some sick reason it is believed that they cannot determine the sex of your baby until your pupils are yellow and you’re writhing in bladder-filled pain.
You can do this, I thought – and as long as they kept all their devices away from my rectum I was certain that I could. Sit there while they squirt ice cold ultrasound goo on your pelvis, find out it’s the daughter you’re certain it is, piss on the table to teach them a lesson and get the hell outta there. That was the plan.
And there it was; short, shriveled and so unholy.
Why did my daughter have a penis?
At a friend’s weekend BBQ I spent 20 minutes trying to convince a horrified four-year-old that I did not swallow the baby inside of me. I stopped trying after I realized that the truth of how the baby had ended up there was even more petrifying.
I was off sex for good! I had denounced men of all kind; sworn off penises long and wide. It was probably for this reason that I was convinced my little accident would produce for me a baby girl – a tiny, sugary and spicy - hopefully not too bitchy - baby girl.
My brother had 3 daughters before he died way too young and although it was a far cry to think that I’d ever fill his giant shoes, I had high hopes of bringing to the family the next granddaughter. I had romantic visions in my head of teaching my baby girl morals and values and how not to be a shameless hussy – as if I knew. We’d be like a “My Buddy” commercial from the 80’s…
My Buddy My Buddy My Buddy My Buddy…Wherever I go…YOU’RE gunna go!
We’d frolic in the clover patch, hands joined and swinging in circles happily while the sun shined and the birds chirped…I could see it now.
My ultrasound was moments away and for some sick reason it is believed that they cannot determine the sex of your baby until your pupils are yellow and you’re writhing in bladder-filled pain.
You can do this, I thought – and as long as they kept all their devices away from my rectum I was certain that I could. Sit there while they squirt ice cold ultrasound goo on your pelvis, find out it’s the daughter you’re certain it is, piss on the table to teach them a lesson and get the hell outta there. That was the plan.
And there it was; short, shriveled and so unholy.
Why did my daughter have a penis?
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Entry 5: Panic At The Disco
By February I was basically an expert on pregnancy. My OB/GYN was necessary only because I could no longer reach my own vagina for examination. I had been reading all the books, listening intently to my body and paying close attention to my diet. This came as quite a surprise to most everyone who knew me, especially my best friend whose response to the news of my pregnancy was, “I’ll alert Taco Bell.”
She had only recently been awarded the privilege of being referred to as my best friend – mostly because I didn’t have many to choose from but also because in a conversation between the two of us shortly after meeting she unexpectedly brought up two of my very favorite subjects; masturbation and poop. I knew immediately that this was going to be a special relationship.
But anyway, I digress.
It was February meaning that my husband’s (sister’s) birthday was just around the corner and her idea of a celebration was torturing me with a night of sober karaoke.
Because of my abnormally large belly, the general consensus was that I was either carrying triplets or I was ready to pop – and the drunken American Idol hopefuls at the karaoke bar were no different. On my way to the stage I was confronted twice with “Any day now?” and once with “How many babies you got in there?”. By the time I finally got to the front the announcer shouted, “And this one’s pregnant! How sweet…” before he handed over the mic.
Thanks a heap, I thought. And by the way, you are no Ryan Seacrest.
My sisters and I had made some tradition out of singing “Earl Had to Die” by the Dixie Chicks every time there was a karaoke machine nearby. It wasn’t until now that I realized it had never been a good idea. Pencil that in between a bastard child and a police record on the list of things I owe to my good friend alcohol.
By the end of the song the Birthday Girl was sprinting for the bathroom and I could tell by the look on her face, it wasn’t to pee. After about a half hour of ignoring my conscience I finally went looking for her. She had locked herself into a bathroom stall and was hugging the toilet that now contained what appeared to be three days worth of tequila soaked bar food. Since I was attending church regularly again, as promised, I called upon the man upstairs to do me a solid and send me a way out of this mess!
But instead he sent me a drunken Kathy Griffin look alike – pre Extreme Makeover, if you know what I mean, only half as funny and twice as obnoxious. She came banging on the door claiming to be a doctor, insisting that I let her in to evaluate the patient. She was unrelenting, trying to shoulder her way into our makeshift drunk tank – threatening to call the police and turn me in for being pregnant in a bar; a threat that amused me more than it scared me.
I could not believe I let my sister drag me into this place all pregnant and hormonal. Some husband she had turned out to be. A good husband would never let his pregnant wife leave a bathroom stall with puke splattered shoes.
As it turns out the police did show up. Apparently the Kathy Griffin look alike called them after all and claimed to be a fellow officer needing back up at the karaoke bar to arrest a pregnant woman for child endangerment. Too bad she’s the idiot who left the party in hand cuffs. But hey, that's her life on the D-List, right?
Because my sister knew that I never met a burrito I didn’t like, she bought me one as a peace offering and because of this I eventually forgave her and allowed her back into our marital bunk bed.
But not before I farted on her pillow.
She had only recently been awarded the privilege of being referred to as my best friend – mostly because I didn’t have many to choose from but also because in a conversation between the two of us shortly after meeting she unexpectedly brought up two of my very favorite subjects; masturbation and poop. I knew immediately that this was going to be a special relationship.
But anyway, I digress.
It was February meaning that my husband’s (sister’s) birthday was just around the corner and her idea of a celebration was torturing me with a night of sober karaoke.
Because of my abnormally large belly, the general consensus was that I was either carrying triplets or I was ready to pop – and the drunken American Idol hopefuls at the karaoke bar were no different. On my way to the stage I was confronted twice with “Any day now?” and once with “How many babies you got in there?”. By the time I finally got to the front the announcer shouted, “And this one’s pregnant! How sweet…” before he handed over the mic.
Thanks a heap, I thought. And by the way, you are no Ryan Seacrest.
My sisters and I had made some tradition out of singing “Earl Had to Die” by the Dixie Chicks every time there was a karaoke machine nearby. It wasn’t until now that I realized it had never been a good idea. Pencil that in between a bastard child and a police record on the list of things I owe to my good friend alcohol.
By the end of the song the Birthday Girl was sprinting for the bathroom and I could tell by the look on her face, it wasn’t to pee. After about a half hour of ignoring my conscience I finally went looking for her. She had locked herself into a bathroom stall and was hugging the toilet that now contained what appeared to be three days worth of tequila soaked bar food. Since I was attending church regularly again, as promised, I called upon the man upstairs to do me a solid and send me a way out of this mess!
But instead he sent me a drunken Kathy Griffin look alike – pre Extreme Makeover, if you know what I mean, only half as funny and twice as obnoxious. She came banging on the door claiming to be a doctor, insisting that I let her in to evaluate the patient. She was unrelenting, trying to shoulder her way into our makeshift drunk tank – threatening to call the police and turn me in for being pregnant in a bar; a threat that amused me more than it scared me.
I could not believe I let my sister drag me into this place all pregnant and hormonal. Some husband she had turned out to be. A good husband would never let his pregnant wife leave a bathroom stall with puke splattered shoes.
As it turns out the police did show up. Apparently the Kathy Griffin look alike called them after all and claimed to be a fellow officer needing back up at the karaoke bar to arrest a pregnant woman for child endangerment. Too bad she’s the idiot who left the party in hand cuffs. But hey, that's her life on the D-List, right?
Because my sister knew that I never met a burrito I didn’t like, she bought me one as a peace offering and because of this I eventually forgave her and allowed her back into our marital bunk bed.
But not before I farted on her pillow.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Entry 4: Immaculate Conception
The news of my transgression was traveling fast and it was now safe to stop sucking in my gut. For the most part, everyone was coming around to the thought of me blindly jumping into motherhood. My stepdad was almost speaking to me again, my stepbrother had toned down the fat jokes, and my sister had selflessly offered to trade beds with me so that I’d stop kicking her in the face 12 times a night when I climbed down from the top bunk to pee.
Things were really starting to look up!
I had to all but draw a diagram for my eight year old niece who was shockingly so sheltered she could not wrap her mind around the basic biology of how someone who was unmarried could even get pregnant. To her it was not physically possible. I bet my mom wasn’t feeling sorry for her.
At our traditional family Christmas dinner after she had no doubt been at church all day hearing the sweetly told stories of the baby Jesus, she looked at me, perplexed. Suddenly her little eyes widened and a light went off for her. It was as if she finally understood what she had been trying to piece together in her head for weeks.
“Auntie, you are like the Virgin Mary.”
All conversation came to a screeching halt.
After slightly choking on my sparkling cider I replied, “Oh?”
“Yes,” she continued, “because she wasn’t married. She was a virgin and she still had a baby. And you’re not married and you’re having a baby. So you must be like the Virgin Mary.”
She had solved one of life’s great mysteries. I smiled, guiltily satisfied, and said, “Sweetie, do me a favor. Run in there and tell Grandma.”
Immaculate Conception.
Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Things were really starting to look up!
I had to all but draw a diagram for my eight year old niece who was shockingly so sheltered she could not wrap her mind around the basic biology of how someone who was unmarried could even get pregnant. To her it was not physically possible. I bet my mom wasn’t feeling sorry for her.
At our traditional family Christmas dinner after she had no doubt been at church all day hearing the sweetly told stories of the baby Jesus, she looked at me, perplexed. Suddenly her little eyes widened and a light went off for her. It was as if she finally understood what she had been trying to piece together in her head for weeks.
“Auntie, you are like the Virgin Mary.”
All conversation came to a screeching halt.
After slightly choking on my sparkling cider I replied, “Oh?”
“Yes,” she continued, “because she wasn’t married. She was a virgin and she still had a baby. And you’re not married and you’re having a baby. So you must be like the Virgin Mary.”
She had solved one of life’s great mysteries. I smiled, guiltily satisfied, and said, “Sweetie, do me a favor. Run in there and tell Grandma.”
Immaculate Conception.
Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Entry 3: Damn Baby
The ultrasound was complete and I decided that my fetus had graduated from parasite to baby. After the initial shock wore off that no sleazy tabloids wanted to pay me millions for the first pictures of my baby, I decided tabloid wasn’t the best way for my mom to find out anyway. It was probably more “responsible” for me to tell her myself and since “responsible” was something I was going to have to seriously consider aspiring to, I decided to get it over with quick and dirty. My first attempt at telling my mother had failed. While playing charades with my family at a Thanksgiving getaway to Mammoth, I attempted to act out the word reproduction by positioning a teddy bear doggy style in front of me and humping it. Only I, in my inglorious situation, would be unlucky enough to pick the word reproduction out of the damn hat anyway! My mom was less than impressed at my attempt to free my inner thespian and instead of the applause I was hoping for, disapprovingly replied, “I feel sorry for your children.”
Plan B.
I had no Plan B. What the hell? I could tattoo “Surprise! I’m knocked up!” upside down on my ass and do a naked cartwheel…? No, that would never work. Tattoos are bad for the baby. Damn baby. Besides that, I didn’t need to give my mother anymore reasons to feel sorry for my children than I already had. I was desperate and so I did what any girl in my situation would have done. I promised to go back to church.
I was stupid. I was sorry. I was not behaving like the good girl my mother raised me to be. I was going to find Jesus and turn my life around – a lie that she believed even less than I did. When I was tired of apologizing I surrendered to the silence. And finally her response came.
“I am disappointed but I am not surprised.”
Not surprised? I knew I should have gone with the tattoo.
Plan B.
I had no Plan B. What the hell? I could tattoo “Surprise! I’m knocked up!” upside down on my ass and do a naked cartwheel…? No, that would never work. Tattoos are bad for the baby. Damn baby. Besides that, I didn’t need to give my mother anymore reasons to feel sorry for my children than I already had. I was desperate and so I did what any girl in my situation would have done. I promised to go back to church.
I was stupid. I was sorry. I was not behaving like the good girl my mother raised me to be. I was going to find Jesus and turn my life around – a lie that she believed even less than I did. When I was tired of apologizing I surrendered to the silence. And finally her response came.
“I am disappointed but I am not surprised.”
Not surprised? I knew I should have gone with the tattoo.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Entry 2: Internally Yours
From there I was directed to a different waiting room. The long, dark hallway to the second room was laced with the judging glares of the only type of women I despise. For the purpose of this story let’s refer to her as “Mother of the Year”. A “Mother of the Year” is the crazy type of pregnant woman who shows up to every routine check up perfectly primped and beautiful, five minutes early and with her adoring husband in tow. She welcomes every disgusting fart and projectile vomit of her first trimester like a gift from God because to her, pregnancy is beautiful. She has also been known to save her baby’s umbilical cord and/or foreskin as a souvenir, and believes that an epidural is an evil, satanic drug designed to rob women of the gifts of labor. After her beautiful delivery she will no doubt be back in her skinny jeans by the time she leaves the hospital and will look at you disgusted when she sees that you are still wearing maternity jeans at your child’s first birthday party. If you happen upon one of these “Mother of Year” types during your own pregnancy do not be discouraged. Simply inform her that you used an artificial sweetener this morning in your triple caffeinated coffee and she will likely be so horrified she will never bother you again. Anywho, back to the story…As for the disapproving glares, we are still unsure whether they were bestowed upon us because we looked like a couple of lesbos, or if they overheard me asking the nurse if it was possible to get an epidural before the ultrasound.
The ultrasound technician guided us to a romantically lit room with yet another examination table. Thanks to the curse of the rectally tilted uterus, this would also be an “internal” exam. Because this was my first experience with the cooter-cam, I had no idea what was in store for me. Much to our amazement, the technician emotionlessly pulled out a long, white cylindrical device, squirted it with medical grade KY and began to dress the device with a…condom? I sat there wondering how she was going to get the batteries in the damn thing if she already put the condom on it. My thought was abruptly cut short by the irreverent outburst of laughter from my sister, who pointing to the condom, lovingly snorted “If she knew how to use one of those, she wouldn’t be in this mess!”
And that’s when the tears came.
The ultrasound technician guided us to a romantically lit room with yet another examination table. Thanks to the curse of the rectally tilted uterus, this would also be an “internal” exam. Because this was my first experience with the cooter-cam, I had no idea what was in store for me. Much to our amazement, the technician emotionlessly pulled out a long, white cylindrical device, squirted it with medical grade KY and began to dress the device with a…condom? I sat there wondering how she was going to get the batteries in the damn thing if she already put the condom on it. My thought was abruptly cut short by the irreverent outburst of laughter from my sister, who pointing to the condom, lovingly snorted “If she knew how to use one of those, she wouldn’t be in this mess!”
And that’s when the tears came.
My First Entry: Up The Spout!
In my first pregnancy I learned quickly that “pregnant” isn’t just a state of being, it’s a foreign world. After reluctantly agreeing to inhabit this foreign world, I made an appointment to see my physician for further confirmation that my 2 missed periods, widening ass and burning nipples were in fact due to the parasite within. Thanks to the parasite’s absentee father it was decided that the part of my husband would be played by my sister – who was virtually single and hadn’t yet been blessed with any parasites of her own. As a side note, I always hated it when people would say “absentee father”. What does that even mean? Is it like a more convenient method of fathering where they assign a man all of his parenting hardships in writing and if he chooses not to be present for the next 18 plus years he just responds within 30 days by mail? Anyway, the call back from the doctor’s office went something like this…
Phone: Ring…Ring…
Me: “Hello?”
Insensitive Nurse: “Hi this is your insensitive nurse calling from the doctor’s office. I see here you have been diagnosed with pregnancy…?”
Me: “Tell me insensitive nurse…IS IT SERIOUS???”
Since my “diagnosis” happened after I was already more than 2 months pregnant, my first visit with the gynecologist skipped right past the “getting to know you” portion and straight for the filthy fun! As I laid there glaring at my husband (sister) with a look of horror on my face the doctor continued to have her way with me. Normally when I get handled this way, I at least make the person buy me a strong drink first! I was feeling so uncomfortable about the situation that I could barely understand the words, “It appears your uterus is tilted rectally,” coming out of the doctor’s mouth. As you see here, the foreign world of Pregnant also has its own language. “We’re going to have to do a rectal examination to figure out how far along you are.”
It was becoming increasingly apparent that no orifice was off limits.
And with a snap of her rubber glove, all I could bare to mutter was, “Doctor…you had me at ‘rectal’.”
Phone: Ring…Ring…
Me: “Hello?”
Insensitive Nurse: “Hi this is your insensitive nurse calling from the doctor’s office. I see here you have been diagnosed with pregnancy…?”
Me: “Tell me insensitive nurse…IS IT SERIOUS???”
Since my “diagnosis” happened after I was already more than 2 months pregnant, my first visit with the gynecologist skipped right past the “getting to know you” portion and straight for the filthy fun! As I laid there glaring at my husband (sister) with a look of horror on my face the doctor continued to have her way with me. Normally when I get handled this way, I at least make the person buy me a strong drink first! I was feeling so uncomfortable about the situation that I could barely understand the words, “It appears your uterus is tilted rectally,” coming out of the doctor’s mouth. As you see here, the foreign world of Pregnant also has its own language. “We’re going to have to do a rectal examination to figure out how far along you are.”
It was becoming increasingly apparent that no orifice was off limits.
And with a snap of her rubber glove, all I could bare to mutter was, “Doctor…you had me at ‘rectal’.”
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