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.
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