Sammi and Deena hadn’t seen a sonogram before, and they were stunned by how cool it was to look inside one person’s body and see another human body. I was my own Russian nesting doll.
“Definitely a boy,” said the sonographer.
“Where?!” I yelled. She pointed to the baby braciola. “That’s the penis? That whole thing?”
It was huge. You’d have to be blind to miss it. I thought our baby’s penis was as long as a third leg. Even the doctor said that he was large and in charge.
Jionni had wanted a boy. Seeing his son’s penis for the first time is, apparently, a major moment for any expectant DILF. Jionni puffed up like it was his own penis we were all cheering about. Honestly? I sort of wanted a girl, just to have a mini-me to dress up. But learning our baby’s sex was a fantastic feeling. Hello, Mommy’s Boy! I started to imagine a combination of our features on a baby boy’s face. He would be so cute! I didn’t care if he looked more or less like either of us. As long as he had Jionni’s butt.
Here’s Jionni
It was exciting to find out we were having a boy. I was happy about getting that out of the way first. It means a lot. I grew up playing sports with my dad and brothers. I still play a lot and coach wrestling. I know a girl can play sports, too. And I will love a girl just as much when we have one. I know Nicole wanted a girl. But I really wanted a son. He’ll be my little man. I can see us throwing a football and hitting golf balls together one day. Can’t wait.
I wonder if the baby knew my first thought was, Not a girl. While we were watching him on the screen, he lifted his hand and raised his middle finger at us. He flipped us off! He seemed to be waving it in our direction. Maybe he was trying to sleep and he had enough of the megahertz sound waves that only dogs, whales, and fetuses can hear. I loved him even more. Seeing that finger, I thought proudly, “He’s one of us.”
Jionni and I needed to choose a strong name to hang on that massive penis. We briefly considered the name Tripod. Kidding. We definitely had no intention of giving him an object name like Apple or Lamp Shade. (Why do celebrity parents do this? As if Blanket wouldn’t have a hard enough life just being Michael Jackson’s son?) We wanted a traditional Italian name, so we flipped through our mental list of names we’d heard and liked. Jionni came up with Lorenzo. For a middle name, we chose Dominic, after my deceased uncle, as a tribute to my dad. Bingo! We would christen our baby Lorenzo Dominic LaValle. Italian and sexy.
As soon as we gave him a name, we decided Lorenzo would have my outgoingness and heart and Jionni’s athleticism and looks. We wanted the best for our boy. I couldn’t wait to meet the little dude.
We got one last look at Enzo in utero. It was at the very end of the pregnancy, a 3D image that was as detailed as any regular black and white photo. He had hair, chubby cheeks, my lips, and Jionni’s nose. Our alien offspring finally looked human. I watched my baby yawn in real time, as if a camera had been snaked inside me. He was so big by then, I swear I could feel the yawn as it was happening. It made me want to yawn myself. I loved him so much already.
As exciting as the sonograms were, they started to piss me off. Enough with sound waves already! I wanted to see my baby the flesh.
Chapter 4
MILF in Training
As soon as I first heard the term MILF (mother I’d like to fuck, or basically, a hot older woman), I wanted to be one. I’d be a MILF, married to a DILF (same thing for guys), and we’d have adorable tan babies. Four of them, three boys and one girl. So, when I found out I was pregnant, I’d already been a MILF-in-training, at least mentally, for years. I had a checklist of MILF must-haves: looking good at all times, keeping your weight down during pregnancy, perfect hair, nails, and makeup, even in the labor and delivery room.
I thought it was possible to act the part all the time. But after I got pregnant, I realized that wasn’t going to happen. I couldn’t be a MILF one hundred percent of the time if I felt like a fat, bloated slob ninety percent of the time. I had to work around my growing belly. In the past, dressing with style was a huge part of feeling pretty for me. How the hell would I pull it off when I felt like a whale?
As it turned out, pregnancy was the mother of invention. I had to figure out a new way of dressing. I didn’t have a choice. None of my clothes fit. I had to lower the bar on expectation whenever I stepped in front of the mirror. Since I look in the mirror and take selfies a thousand times a day, I had a lot of mental adjustments to make. The only thing that kept me on the right side of disgusted, though, was determination. Doing the best I could with what I had to work with helped me think more highly of myself, especially when I felt like dung. Getting dressed, shopping, planning outfits, and organizing my closet was a distraction from dry hurls and gas attacks, which in itself was a gift from God.
I was particularly style challenged by the timing of my pregnancy. My due date was early September 2012. July and August were the hottest on record. Temperatures were over a hundred degrees for days on end. I couldn’t hide in bulky sweaters. If I wore too much of anything, I would have fainted from heat stroke. Cute sundresses and flowing tops saved me. I don’t know how I would have gotten through the heat without them.
The day of my baby shower was a scorcher. Jionni got so dizzy and dehydrated playing golf, he had to go to the emergency room (he was fine). Despite the heat, I felt beautiful in a black-and-white sexy sundress that showed off my boobs, and six-inch-high black sandals. I think I got them at Mandee for, like, $30.
Turnsout, I didn’t buy a single piece of maternity clothing. I checked out some of the stores, but nothing was cute. It was all so boring and beyond expensive. I guess the logic is that they have to charge more for all that extra fabric. Bullshit. Expectant moms are at the store’s mercy. They double the price because their customers are desperate and think they have no other choice but to pay the Mommy Tax markups. A hundred bucks for a plain black t-shirt dress that made me look a bowling ball? Ridiculous.
You will never see me spending thousands of dollars on designer clothes. Paying sky-high prices for a wardrobe I’d use for a few months only? The definition of insanity. For the duration of my pregnancy, I went the cheap route, making the rounds at old faves like Bebe or Mandee. I pulled off the rack whatever looked cool, just in a bigger size. Ordinarily, I have the body of a twelve-year-old (if she had boobs). So I could fit my Buddha belly into a regular size L. I didn’t even need to go up to an XL. Weird irony: At my pre-pregnancy weight, I couldn’t always find clothes small enough for me. So I actually had more options pregnant than I did before.
The bigger I got, the bolder my style. When I had only a little bump, I entered my Poncho Phase. Belly-hugging clothes made me look fat, not quite knocked up. Plus I was scared constrictive clothes would strangle my baby. Women could faint from wearing corsets. You could sort of see how a bandage club dress would compress the fetus and make it grow into a weird shape. I wasn’t going to risk that. (Obviously, that’s not a real danger. Just pregnancy brain paranoia. Unless you’re wearing a belt cinched tight as a tourniquet, your baby is protected no matter how tacky you dress.) Hopefully, in the near future, I’ll design hot clothes for pregnant ladies of all sizes. In the meantime, I had to improvise. Around month six or seven, when it was clear that I was pregnant, I started wearing clingy clothes. I thought, I can keep trying to hide, or I can show off my bump proudly. I was happiest with my style when I was showing off.
So what did I rely on? I could not live without my:
Ponchos. A poncho is like a tent you throw over your shoulders. It hides everything underneath. It was the perfect solution to the “Is she pregnant, or just a legit blimp?” stage. My ponchos always had vibrant prints. Patterns do a good job of masking bulges and bumps, too.
Leggings. I got a dozen pairs of leggings—denim, faux leather, in colors and patterns—in bigger sizes and stretchy fabrics. The best had drawstring waistbands and expanded along with my belly. I didn’t wear pants with a button or zipper for about eight
months. Stretch waists are dangerous when you’re not knocked up. But when you are? Life savers! I lived in mine.
Harem pants. I avoid harem pants when not pregnant, because they remind me of clowns. But for the second trimester, harem pants were the perfect camouflage for the growing tummy. I put a belt right under my boobs to define a “waist,” and felt fly in those magic carpet pants.
Wrap dresses. No buttons and zippers with wrap dresses. They’re designed to be adjustable around the middle. The only way a wrap dress would get too small was if it didn’t overlap across my belly. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. The bow in front just kept getting smaller and smaller. I had to tie it right under my boobs in a knot by the end.
Headbands. My signature look included a silk flower headband or a cute bow. Putting a topper on my look added a pop of color to any outfit. During pregnancy, it also drew attention up, up, all the way to my hair (which looked freakin’ awesome thanks to the vitamins and hormones). The bigger my stomach, the larger my flowers and bows. I just felt prettier knowing that the focus of my outfit was on my head, not my belly.
Cute tops. By the third trimester, there was no chance of defining a waist. So I put on flowing blouses with leggings. I gravitated toward bright colors like red and orange. They flattered my skin tone (although
I wasn’t as tan as usual; no products while preggers). The color made me feel happy, too. A few of my tops were borderline hippie-ish. Boho wasn’t my thing . . . until I tried it, and then I really got into it. Pregnancy didn’t only stretch my belly, but it expanded my style range.
Stretch! Fabrics that give are a pregnant lady’s bestie. You can get pretty much anything in stretch materials these days: tops, jeans, and dresses. I wore stretchy t-shirts and sundresses, usually in bright colors and prints. Speaking of . . .
Prints and shine. Even when I wore black, I made sure it had sparkle and shine, like studs, beading, or sequins. My fallback print will always be leopard. I even wore a t-shirt that had a giant leopard on the front. As long as I wore my spots, I felt strong and fierce. Rawr!!
Jackets are the finishing piece that pulls an outfit together. My shoulders and arms didn’t get fat, so I could shop for jackets while pregnant that I could keep for after. I had to leave them open—all the better for showing off the dress underneath. Even with a blazer, I amped it up with sequins. Everyone knows that if you’re in a black leather jacket, you will feel tough and sexy. Mine gave me an instant mood swing in the right direction.
Drawers. Gawd. Forget trying to be a sexy little thing in thongs. I swear, I told myself early on that I was going to be hot and sexy throughout the nine months. But once my belly popped and I turned gigantic, it was all downhill, as far as underwear is concerned. I packed away all the sexy thongs and booty shorts, because they wouldn’t fit over my leg.
The first time I shopped for pregnancy bras and underwear, I was mortified. Everything looked like something my great-great-grandmother would wear. But these old lady undergarments were the most comfortable panties I have ever worn, like a silky diaper. I’m talking grandma panties that covered my whole ass and part of my legs and pulled all the way up to over my boobs. They were so big, they could pass for a mini dress.
The bras were comfortable, too! They are intimidating to look at, though. The cup sizes were literally the size of my head, and the style was hideous. But they did a good job of holding up my big milk melons—and I needed the support.
Heels. My standby style pick-me-up has always been heels. I know everyone has an opinion on wearing heels during pregnancy. When I was in six-inch wedges, some woman came up to me and said, “Heels will hurt the baby!” Bitch, get real. If you know how to wear them, heels won’t hurt a fly, let alone a baby. I happen to be a pro. I’ve been rocking six-inchers since age fourteen. During pregnancy, I wore comfortable heels I could balance in, like platforms and wedges. Even my pumps had a chunky, stable heel.
And I needed the lift. As soon as I slipped on a nice shoe, I felt so much better. Pretty, even. During the last couple of months of pregnancy, when I was mistaken for a walrus on the beach, I needed to raise my spirits. As long as I could fit cool shoes on my bloated feet, I thought, I’m doing it and no one can tell me different. I wore three-inchers until the ninth month. I lived in my Jeffrey Campbell platforms until the fifth month.
Slippers. When it was time to really relax, I put on my cute slippers, threw my hair into a pony, shrugged on a leopard print silk robe, grabbed my ice cream, and sank into the couch. Yes! The Chillin’ Hour, just like the end of a non-pregnant day, but times a hundred to take the load off. Slippers go on, stress disappears.
Style was only half of the expectant MILF formula. You can put on the cutest dress, but if your face doesn’t look good, you might as well be wearing a garbage bag. You must wear makeup. When you’re dolled up, you will feel glamorous, even while farting, gagging, and peeing yourself. You can be a gassy bloated slob, or a classy gassy bloated slob. Choose classy.
Every morning, I woke up and put on blush. Instantly, I felt a little better emotionally no matter how shitty I felt physically. My mommy training included a lot of lifting of the lipgloss wand. I kept up with my false eyelash routine, too. Why should my lashes be smaller if my belly was bigger? It made no sense. If anything, I wanted more lash. I went through mascara by the case. As long as that part of me was flawless, I could deal with what wasn’t.
Unfortunately, my skin during pregnancy was blotchy, zitty, and puffy. A trifecta of horrible. I used a lot of concealer. Because I wasn’t tanning at all—bed, sun, or spray—my skin got lighter and lighter. I had to adjust my concealer shade a few times. I made up for being pale by lavishing moisturizer on my skin every day.
What disgusted me the most, though, were the breakouts. Was I a 24-year-old woman, or a 13-year-old girl going through puberty? The zits were angry, gross, and legion—and not only on my face. They sprouted up like the plague all over my chest. A village of pimples made a nice home in the valley of my boobs during the three hottest days of summer. Jesus God. Beyond not okay! I tried to get rid of it by using face masks repeatedly on my chest. When it got really dry and crackling, I slathered on moisturizer. Eventually, I conquered zit village, but talk about yuck.
The only positive beauty change during pregnancy was that my hair grew thick and shiny from all the vitamins and hormones. It got so thick, straightening it took forever. If I flat ironed at home, it would take hours. But I enjoyed it. The process was hypnotic and really did calm and soothe. Around month four, I did my research about all-natural safe-while-pregnant hair color. My stylist used an ammonia-free lightener and all-organic color. I went from having dark brown hair with red streaks to black hair with blond tips for summer. I also put in Barbie-long extensions, just for fun. Along with my hair, I lavished attention on my nails, which also grew like crazy. I got mani-pedis about once a week.
I did what I could do to make myself feel better. If that meant spending two hours flat ironing my Barbie extensions, fine. It’s the pregnant lady’s prerogative to pamper herself. She’ll be elbow deep in Pampers soon enough.
Chapter 5
Whale Sex
I went to college to become a veterinary technician, aka the person who holds the animal while the doctor does all the medical stuff. While I was a student, I wrote a long research paper on the Mating Rituals and Habits of the Blue Whale, the largest animal to have ever existed on Earth. Some fun factoids: A male blue whale penis is ten feet long and as big around as a basketball. The female’s vulva lips are as long as helicopter propellers with nipples at the ends for feeding calves. The male and female bang in warm water. After a year of gestation, the baby comes out fluke first, weighing 6,000 pounds, about the same size as my SUV.
I never found out some important information, such as whether or not blue whales smush during pregnancy, if the calf is emotionally scarred that his parents were knocking fins while he was in utero, if the female whale has orgasms, or if it’s true th
at dribbled-out whale sperm makes the ocean salty. Sadly, experts just don’t know all that much about the sex lives of blue whales.
Given that our DNA is, like, 99 percent the same (give or take a chromosome or two), and that I felt like a whale during pregnancy, my sex life during that time might fill in some holes regarding these majestic and mysterious sea creatures. Marine biologists: Get out your iPads and start taking notes on the mating habits of the “Tan Whale:”
The male has a ten-inch-long penis that’s as big around as a baseball. You’re welcome, Jionni.
Immediately after conception, the female has vivid, kinky wet dreams. Oh, yeah, baby! This was a major bonus of the early months. I had crazy, sexy dreams. I only wish I could remember what, or who, they were about. Didn’t matter. My subconscious was literally fucking with me. I’d have an orgasm that was so powerful and intense, it would wake me up out of a dead sleep. My eyes would fly open, and I’d gasp for breath, my legs shaking. I read somewhere that the baby can feel the mother’s orgasm. I guess it gets rattled around from the spasms. Does it know what’s going on? Maybe it sees rainbows and unicorns? Um, awkward.
During the first trimester, both genders enjoy increased desire. We realized I was pregnant a few days into the New Year. Looking back at our sex life in November and December, we were getting it in like we were trying to conceive. The holidays were a raging smutfest. I thought it was because we were just in a good place romantically. But now I think it was because I was juicing on hormones. I probably put out a chemical signal to Jionni’s lizard brain that I was carrying his fetus, so he wanted me more. I was climbing the walls to get to him. I just couldn’t keep my hands off him. Once we knew we were pregnant, our drive kicked into an even higher gear. It was a huge turn on for me to be future parents together. Plus, I wasn’t showing yet. I could do all the positions without feeling self-conscious.
Baby Bumps: From Party Girl to Proud Mama, and all the Messy Milestones Along the Way Page 4