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.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
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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